


Flash Fire

by Itsagoodthing (mybatboys)



Category: Hurt Sam Winchester - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: Blind Sam Winchester, Blindness, Dean Winchester is Protective of Sam Winchester, Family, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Protective Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2018-12-24 16:33:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 53,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12016689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybatboys/pseuds/Itsagoodthing
Summary: Summary: Field Medic training had been ground into them since day one. Today Dean needs to use that training on the one person he always hoped he never would. His brother.





	1. Chapter 1

_Summary: Field Medic training had been ground into them since Day 1, and today Dean needs to use that training on the one person he always hoped he never would. His brother._

_Author's Note 1: This takes place sometime in Season 4, and I'm going to go ahead and label this AU, because I'm not sure how much of the original cannon I'll be referring to._

_Author's Note 2:_ _There are a few F-bombs, so be aware of that._

_Author's Note 3: I just wanted to say that I've been reading Supernatural fanfiction for a while now. And, a few months ago, got the desire to write a story of my own. While I'm not new to posting to A03, I am new to posting on this forum. And, over the months, I've read so many incredible stories. I have to admit that I'm a little nervous about adding one of my own into the mix._

_I sincerely hope you enjoy this._

* * *

Chapter One

"… he'd've had better luck trying to get a damn chicken to bark like a dog."

Dean laughed and took another drink from the beer in his hand as Bobby fiddled around with an old carburetor.

He and Sam had rolled into town the night before, after finishing up on a job in Minnesota. An exorcism; nothing too exciting. They were packing up the trunk, and Dean asked Sam what was next on the schedule. He'd come back with an unexpected, "nothing", and Dean had smiled. They were less than two hours from Bobby's and the sound of some home-cooked meals and sheets with no mystery stains was just too damn hard to pass up. So, they headed that way to pop in on the old man and hang out for a few days.

Early the next morning, Rufus had come pounding on Bobby's door somewhere around the butt crack of dawn. He was standing in the kitchen and pissed about something, like usual. Bobby hissed at his old partner to shut his yap, and Dean had cracked an eye open in time to watch Bobby gesture toward the living room.

Rufus had thrown a glance their way, scowling from the inconvenience, but lowered his voice as he resumed his gripping. He was going on about some work Bobby had done on the transmission of his truck a couple of months ago. Said it kept slipping gears. Bobby had told his best-not-friend not to get his panties in a wad, and said he'd look at it after his first cup of coffee.

Rufus put up a hand, telling him not to do him any more favors, and that he was hijacking Bobby's car lift and tools. He'd do it himself. Correctly, this time. Bobby had waved him away with an air of good riddance, and went straight for the empty coffee pot.

Dean closed his eyes again, and drifted back off. He and Sam slept in until sometime shortly after ten. That's because the wafting smells of eggs, bacon, hash browns and a fresh pot of coffee had wandered in and woke up their stomachs. And, if you didn't know Bobby well, you might not think the gruff, hermit hunter/mechanic would be any good in the kitchen. But, Bobby's grub is  _good._

After breakfast, they had refilled their coffee cups and went out to the workshop. The two of them kept the old hunter company while he puttered around with a few of his unfinished projects. They sat around a couple of hours, getting caught up on the latest news in the hunters' community, and then caught Bobby up on some of their more interesting cases, since the last time they'd rolled through town.

Sometime around one in the afternoon, Billy and Cooper, a couple of other hunters their age, showed up, asking to look through Bobby's library. Bobby had asked them if it was something of an emergency and, when Cooper had said no, Bobby smiled. He told them they could look through all the books they wanted.  _I_ _f,_  they went to the south end of the lot and pulled all the brush back there to the burn pile, and lit it up.

Dean had smiled. Bobby never made him and Sam work before using his stuff. His smile grew; they're his favorites.

Cooper and Billy had agreed it was a fair trade and Bobby sent them on their way, telling them the kerosene was in the shed. Billy had piped up about him having about a dozen sheds on the property, and Sam laughed, saying he'd show them which one.

Bobby watched the trio head off, and then walked back into the workshop, muttering something about, everyone showing up on the same damn day, and something else about, not a moment's peace. Dean had grinned, and followed after, knowing the grumpy old man liked the company.

Now, it was only him and Bobby in the workshop, kicking back a few, and doing more talking than working.

Bobby looked up at Dean, "Hey, wanna put down the suds and come over here'n give me a hand?"

"Yep," Dean said, setting his bottle down and hopped off the stool. He was halfway around his side of the workbench when a bomb went off. The sound of the blast had him ducking out of instinct. He grabbed the worktable, as the ground shuddered and the walls shook.

The noise from the explosion was deafening, but brief, and when it was over, the two hunters looked over at each other, both wearing the same freaked-out expression.

"What the hell was that?" Dean cried, clutching at his chest.

"I don't know, but it was damn close," Bobby said, shaking his head and crossed the floor, with Dean hot on his heels. He yanked the door open and they both ran out into the yard, but came to a halting stop with a wide-eyed stare.

On the back-end of the lot, a geyser of fire and black smoke was shooting a good thirty feet into the air. They could hear Rufus shouting something, and just below that, a howl of agony.

_Sam._

The sound stole Dean's breath and his heart forgot how to beat. Panic tried to smother him, but he squelched the beast down and broke into a sprint.

Bobby's place is  _big._ It may not seem like it because it's crammed to the brim with anything that might have had a set of wheels at one time. But, it's  _acres_ of wrecked cars, trucks, Semi tractors, school buses, church buses, old people buses..., you get the idea. And, it would just be his luck that the burn pile was way the hell over by the other workshop, nearest the house.

But, Dean can run the 100 m in 11.8 seconds. The explosion was a little farther than double that distance away, and today was the day he was going to shatter his personal record.

Chin lifted, Dean's arms pump hard as his feet pounded the ground below. A steady stream of scenarios of what he might find played through his mind in seconds. The anxiety over the unknown caused his heart to hammer in his chest. His ragged breathing had nothing at all to do with running full-out.

He'll get there in a matter of seconds, common sense told him that, but time was trying to screw with him. Those seconds were flying by but he was moving slower. The distance between them grew as his brother got sucked further and further away from him. No matter how hard he pushed himself, it still wasn't fast enough, and a prickle of fear that he wouldn't be in time blossomed in his chest.

Again, he forced it away and just focused on  _getting there._

He rounded a flattened stack of junkers, and took a second to catch his breath and process the scene. His vision zeroed in on Sam, on the ground, about ten feet from the blaze. His hands were covering his face and Rufus had him under one of his arms, struggling to drag him back.

"Sam!" Dean bellowed. Racing the last twenty yards to his brother, he skidded to a stop opposite Rufus, hooked his arm under Sam's, and pulled.

"What the hell happened?" Dean shouted at Rufus as they hauled his brother away from the flames.

"Hell if I know! I was about to crawl under a car when a bomb went off. I got over here, found these two on the ground."

They got him to what Dean considered a safe distance and then Rufus left to go check on Billy.

Dean dropped to his knees beside Sam. Rufus was yelling at Billy to do something, use something to knock back the fire. Dean wasn't sure, and right then, he really didn't care. Not when his little brother was on the ground before him, holding his face, and writhing from a pain so bad he couldn't respond when Dean tried to find out where he was hurt.

So, when his peripheral vision registered Bobby's boots storming past, he just let him and Rufus worry about the best way to deal with the fire, while he focused on the best way to help his brother.

It was a tricky thing, though. Because, it meant that he had to ignore the raw, suffocating emotions that were screaming right in his face, and call up all that field-medic training his father had pounded into themover, and over, and over again.

Back then, there were some days that he flat-out  _loathed_  the man with how meticulous and painstakingly perfect everything had to be during the man's practice scenarios and verbal pop-quizzes. And, every wrong answer, every single wrong decision, carried with it its own penalty.

Delaying transport during a critical situation? Forty-five push-ups. If he even  _thinks_  you're trying to have an attitude, he'd forget to hear you counting off, and you got to go again.

Give the wrong body temp for mild hypothermia? Well, was there a pool or a body of water nearby? You got to look forward to treading water for an hour.

Get an ego and don't step down from a procedure you know the other person is better at? You might get dropped off five miles from wherever, and hoof it the rest of the way. Oh, and you had damn well make sure you got it done in an hour or less.

It was hell for him and Sam at times; okay, maybe most times. Especially when the old man was having a hard day with even the small things, like being alive, and he drank too little coffee and too much Jack.

But, one thing Dean could say for certain about those exercises in correction was, you learned to pick up stuff quickly and you didn't forget. It gets drilled into your mind and every fiber of who you are. You eat, sleep and shit those protocols, facts and procedures, until they came to you as naturally as taking a piss.

And, right now, if he could, he would give the man a big, fat kiss for all of those times he'd put them through hell. Because, if he hadn't, and Dean had to triage his own brother, who had just been the victim of a fucking  _explosion_ , who wasn't responding, and who was palming his eyes like they're just not there, he knew he'd be wasting time on thinking and planning, instead of just getting it done.

Starting with the basics, Dean tried again to get a response out of his brother, but he came up empty. So, he bypassed getting answers for now. He talked to Sam, trying to keep him as still as possible, while performing a quick field assessment for any life-threatening injuries.

He looked at his watch and gave himself a time limit of one minute:

Sam's breathing was too fast, but good enough. His pulse was accelerated, but steady and strong. He was moving all his extremities. Other than the obvious burns, Dean didn't see any clear signs of trauma: no bleeding, lumps or depressions to his head; no open fractures or gushing wounds; abdominal palpitation was a negative for rigidity and distention, so no obvious internal bleeding. He had a burn on his right arm with a varying width of one to two inches and it ran from the side of his hand to mid-forearm. It was blood-red and already showing fluid. Blood was leaking out of Sam's right ear. A ruptured ear drum was a safe bet, and Dean hoped to high Heaven that was why Sam wasn't responding to him.

Dean knew his next move was one that he'd been dreading the entire time. He needed to figure out what the hell was going on with Sam's eyes.

Trying once more to get through to his brother, and hoping he could get Sam to work with him, Dean placed a hand to the top of Sam's head and leaned over him to talk at his good—well, his not-bleeding ear, "Sam. Hey; you hearing me, Sammy?"

Sam's distress dialed down a notch or two and Dean was relatively certain that was because he finally heard a trusted voice inside a world filled with pain and darkness.

Military training be damned, it tore him up on the inside to see his little brother suffering and afraid. And, he did what he could to offer comfort while staying on top of the situation. Hell, he was a fucking Winchester. They were great multitaskers, and Dean knew how to pull-off being a doting brother and a badass medic at the same time.

Speaking louder into the same ear, he rubbed Sam's arm, trying one last time to get him to respond, "Let, me see, Sam. C'mon, move your hands!"

But, it was no use and, after looking at his watch again, decided he was wasting too much time by being diplomatic. He'd been on the scene almost three minutes already and hadn't even looked at Sam's most serious injury.

Being subject to a thermal flash burn, Dean knew the burns needed to be irrigated, to halt their progression. More importantly, Sam's eyes needed to be flushed out.

Dean switched modes to badass medic and was careful not to touch the burns on Sam's arm when he grabbed his wrists, "Damn it, Sam. Let me see, so I can help you!"

Fighting against his brother, Dean grunted from the strain as he began to inch Sam's hands away from his face, wondering briefly, when in the hell did his kid brother became just as strong as him.

Dean got his hands down halfway and Sam balled them into fists, groaning low and desperate, as he tried to pull away. And, he'd been so caught up in a world that only involved helping Sam, that, Dean had forgotten about everyone else.

He starts a little when Rufus' hands latched onto Sam's fists, helping Dean to pull the kid's hands away from his face. They were able to force them down to his chest and, once they got them pinned, leverage gave them the upper hand.

"Hold'em down; but, watch his right forearm," Dean ordered. He palmed one of Sam's fists, giving it a few strokes with his thumb, and spoke to him while leaning in, moving with him, so he could inspect the damage.

Considering the force of the explosion, Sam's face wasn't anywhere as bad as Dean had feared. He had superficial cuts from flying debris and the skin to his face, neck and part of his chest were redder than the epic sunburn from the summer of '96. The tips of his bangs were singed, but at least the kid still had his eyebrows.

That left his eyes, which he had squeezed shut.

"I'll go get some ice," Rufus jumped up and ran for the house.

Dean grabbed his brother's hands before they could touch his face, "Easy, Sam! You're going to make it worse. Don't fight me, man." Then, what Rufus said registered and he snapped his head up. The guy was already half way to the house.

"Rufus, No!" Dean shouted the distance, "No ice; cool water!"

"Okay, then the hose!"

 _"No!_ Either tap from the house or bottled!"

Rufus looked at him like he was being ridiculous, "Water comin' out of that hose is the same damn water comin' out the kitchen faucet; only faster!"

Dean struggled to keep Sam's hands away from his face and got them pinned back to his chest, barking, "Yeah, and who knows what kind of bacteria are in that hose! Can't fucking chance it with these burns!"

"I got some distilled in the shed."

Dean threw a glance over his shoulder and saw Bobby rushing off toward a nearby building.

Sam groaned and Dean's eyes shot back to his brother, "Easy, Sammy. Gonna take care of it in just a sec. Just hang in there, kiddo."

_"Dean?"_

His name. Just that single word was all it took for his emotions to overpower him for a moment. Sam said his name; knew who he was talking to. He was finally responding to something Dean said, and the relief of that alone was enough to bring tears to his eyes.

Hovering over his little brother, Dean placed a hand to the top of his head and took hold of Sam's left hand, "Yeah, Sammy. It's me." Dean squeezed his hand and smiled when Sam squeezed his in return. But, Sam didn't just squeeze back, he gripped Dean's hand and held on.

Dean breathed through a rush of empathy and smoothed a hand down the side of his brother's head, gripping back just as tightly. It sent a message that Dean's got it all under control and he was going to take care of everything. It sent a message that Dean's going to hold on and see him through this. It's sent a message that Dean promises to never let him go.

"Sammy, open your eyes for me." Dean leaned in closer; spoke louder, "Sam. Open your eyes. Let me see."

Sam groaned through barred teeth and panted,  _"“… can't—ah...!_ God _, Dean… feels like they're shredded."_

A spark of dread ignited in his gut, but Dean was quick to push it away, "It's gonna be okay, Sammy. Bobby's got some water. We're gonna take care of it."

Hauling four gallons of water; two jugs in each hand, Bobby dropped to his knees opposite Dean and started tearing off the safety tab from of the first jug.

Dean looked back to his brother, "Sam, gonna pour some water on your face and your arm now. Gonna help the pain to ease." He looked back at Bobby, "Focus on his eyes first, Bobby. He says they're bad."

Bobby popped the lid and grabbed it with both hands. He was careful with how far he tipped the jug and a controlled stream of water started to flow over Sam's face.

Sam jumped when the water first hit his hyper-sensitized skin and tossed his head back and forth. Dean took his head in his hands and held him steady. "Damn it, Bobby, don't drown him!" Dean griped, when Sam started hacking, and turned his brother's head it to the side until he stopped sputtering.

"Ain't tryin' to! Boy's a damn movin' target!"

"WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?"

Bobby looked up as Cooper came running out of the house. "Grab some clean towels!"

The hunter doesn't ask any questions, just made a tight U-turn and ran back into the house.

Dean looked around, "Where's Billy?"

"Looks like the kid broke his arm," Rufus supplied. "Sent him back to the house for now."

 _Broke his arm._ Dean stewed over that for a minute. Sam was burned and going through hell, and, Billy  _broke his arm?_  How in the fuck was that fair? You know, it's not like he wanted the guy to be hurt at all, or anything like that. It's just that for once in their miserable existence, could they just catch one fucking break, already?

"This one's about done. Rufus, open me up another jug." Bobby glanced at Dean, "How bad is it?"

Dean shook his head, pulling Sam's hands away again, "Don't know yet. Looks like mainly first-degree burns, although the arm looks more like second. Right eardrum is fucking blown. No clue about his eyes; won't really know until we get him to the hospital. Might have other injuries from the blast, but nothing obvious enough to find on a quick check."

Dean looked at his watch: four minutes, seventeen seconds. They needed to pick up the pace and get Sam out of there, because he sure as hell wasn't doing no forty-five push-ups.

Rufus started to dig out his cellphone, "I'll call an ambulance."

Dean looked at Bobby, "Way out here in the Boonies… What's quicker? Waiting for a rig or driving him ourselves?"

The two hunters looked at each other for a beat.

"Ourselves." They both answered in unison.

Sam was beginning to calm as Bobby started in on the second jug, and Dean let go of his wrists with one hand, fishing his keys out of his jeans with the other. He tossed them to Rufus, and the older hunter responded with a nod.

Dean watched him rush off and looked back to his brother, "Hey, Sammy," Dean stroked a hand down the side of his brother's head. The water Bobby continued to pour over the burns was soaking Sam's hair, and Dean was gentle as he moved his bangs away from his face, "You with me, Sam? Sam, can you open your eyes now?"

The kid shook his head and Dean leaned in closer, "I know it hurts like hell, Sammy, but we need to flush out your eyes so we can get you out of here and get you some help."

Sam just shakes his head again and Dean sighed as Cooper came sliding into third with the towels. Dean looked over at him, "Cooper; Come over here, behind Sam, and hold his head. Try not to grab him where he's burned."

Dean straddled his brother's chest, and then looked up at Bobby, giving him a tormented look of uncertainty.

Bobby just looked back at him like Dean already knew the damn answer, "Go on. Hurt him now, or deal with permanent damage later. Those are your options."

Dean put his game face on and glared at Cooper, "He's gonna thrash. You hold him good." Then he leaned over his brother and wasted no time in prying open his left eye.

The eye was intact and Dean thought he saw the pupil react to the light. The relief was enough make him light-headed, but then Sam howled like a wounded animal as Bobby started pouring a gentle stream of water into his eye, and that relief was effectively squashed.

The sound of Sam's agony, and knowing he was a big part in inflicting that pain upon his little brother—logic be damned, it broke his fucking heart. Tears invaded his vision again and he felt his chin begin to tremble. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry."

Dean was practically sitting on Sam's chest, his knees pressed against his brother's upper arms, pinning them to his side. Sam brought his knees up and pushed and off the ground, trying to throw him off. But, Dean simply shifted his weight back and squeezed his knees harder against his brother's arms.

Dean heard Baby roar to life and rev her engine a couple times. He looked at Bobby, "Gotta get the other one flushed out before we get him out of here."

"Shit. I'm out."

Dean released Sam's lid, cursing the break in their progress as Bobby tossed the empty jug down and then tore off the seal from the third one.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut again, begging them to stop. Fucking  _begged_ them.

Dean's heart shredded into pieces and all he wanted to do was pull his little brother into his arms and tell him everything was going to be all right, over and over until he believed him. Just like he would when Sam was little.

But, instead, he just got to torture the kid some more. "One more time, Sammy. Almost done."

Dean barely touched his face and Sam jerked his head to the side.

"Damn it, Cooper! You've gotta  _hold_  him!"

"Right. Sorry."

Cooper forced Sam's head back, the Impala was bearing down on them, and Dean became the hard ass Sam needed him to be as he forced the lids on his right eye to part.

The kid was already hollering before the water even touched his eye and Dean tried not to think about how red it was. How fucking blood-red both of them were.

Sam was screaming at them to stop, struggling and fighting, and trying to twist his body out from under Dean's weight. He managed to yank an arm loose from his side and, in his attempt to do whatever, ended up cracking Dean right in the jewels.

Bobby shot him a startled, sucks-to-be-you look as Dean turned his head and closed his eyes with a grunt. The initial pain from the blow was manageable, but he knew better, and waited for what was coming.

He didn't have to wait long and, true to form, the pain came rushing in like a title wave. It started at the site of impact, then traveled to his groin before taking the express route to his stomach, where it set up camp and tried to kill him.

He released a long, throaty groan and buried his eyes against the crook of his extended arm. It took all he had to keep his brother's eye open, when all he wanted to do was collapse to the ground, fold in on himself, and hold the boys until it passed.

Rufus pulled up in front of the group and swung Baby around so that the side of the car was facing them. He left the engine idling and jogged back over to the group.

Bobby kept pouring water into Sam's eye for about another ten seconds and then pulled the jug back, saying, "Okay; that's gonna have to be good enough for now."

Dean released him and Sam clamped his eyes shut, whimpering, "No more, please; please, no more…"

"All right, son. No more." Bobby said, rubbing Sam's shoulder couple of times, "No more."

Dean watched the grizzled hunter blink shiny pools from his eyes as he ruffled the top of Sam's head. Then he grabbed one of the towels Cooper had brought out. He soaked it with the water, folded it, and was uncharacteristically tender when he draped it over Sam's eyes. Then he repeated the process with another towel, wrapping it around his forearm.

Bobby grabbed the other towels along with the fourth jug of water and thrusted those at Cooper's chest, saying, "Put these in the front seat."

Bobby pointed at Dean, "You good to walk?"

Dean knew what he was asking, knew it wasn't really a question so much as a warning that they were moving. And, no; he really wasn't ready, but that didn't make a damn bit of difference because Sam needed to go.  _Now._

Dean slid off Sam's chest with as much grace as he could manage, and then took the open jug and drizzled more water onto the towel covering his eyes. He placed his hand on the top of his brother's head and Sam flinched a little in response to the hell just been through.

"It's okay, Sammy." Dean said and took the hand Sam had hovering near his face, brought it to himself, and pressed it against his chest. He leaned in and spoke in gentle tones, "Okay, Sam. Gonna get you up and get you to the hospital. Okay?"

He gave his brother's trembling hand a squeeze and then guided it to the wet towel covering his eyes, "I need you to hold this against your eyes while Bobby and I get you up and into the car. Can you do that, Sammy? Can you hold that?"

Sam swallowed and took a gasping breath, but then he nodded.

"Good boy," Dean pat his shoulder. "Okay, little brother," Dean said, getting his feet under himself, "On three," He looked at Bobby and both men grabbed Sam under his arms. "One, two, three… c'mon, Sammy, help us out," Dean grunted as they hauled his giant, little brother off of the ground.

Sam responded to instruction, which gave Dean another moment of relief, and staggered to his feet. He pitched forward, but Dean and Bobby gently pulled him back to center. Sam hunched over, holding the dripping towel to his face, and exhaled a small whimper.

"Hang in there, Sammy. We got'cha. Baby's right here," Dean soothed as they guided him to the waiting car. "Gonna turn you around so you can sit down, go slow... Okay, go ahead and sit down. Don't worry, me and Bobby will guide you," he said and gave his brother's hip a little shove, urging him to sit down.

Sam complied, and Bobby covered the top of his head with his hand, guiding him into the car. The back of his hand bumped against the frame and he told the kid to duck down a little more.

Once they got Sam on the seat, Dean left him with Bobby, and rushed around the back of the car to the driver's side. He clambered into the back seat and put a hand on his brother's shoulder, trying to guide him further into the car. But, Sam jumped at the touch and Dean kicked himself for being stupid.

"Sorry, man. It's just me. It's just me, Sammy," Dean said, and put his hand on his brother's shoulder again. He gave it a little tug. "I got you, Sam. Go ahead and lay back."

Sam all but crumpled into his brother's arms, and then Bobby shut the car door. Pulling Sam against himself, Dean dragged them across the seat to his side of the car and eased his brother across his lap.

The half-empty jug of water entered the car, followed by Bobby as he slid into the driver's seat, slammed the door shut, and put the car into gear.

Dean, with his arms full of hurting little brother, looked up and met Bobby's eyes in the rear-view mirror. And, when he spoke, his voice dipped into a warning growl, "Bobby, you drive this damn car like a pack of hellhounds are on your ass."


	2. Chapter 2

So, the F-bombs are a little more plentiful in this chapter, and I'd like to apologize in advance for Dean's mouth. But, try to cut the guy a break. He's having a pretty crappy day.

* * *

 

_Dean, with his arms full of hurting little brother, looked up and met Bobby's eyes in the rear-view mirror. When he spoke, his voice dipped into a warning growl, "Bobby, you drive this damn car like a pack of hellhounds are on your ass."_

 

Bobby shared a brief, but intense look with Dean, and then Baby was on the move. Bobby didn’t gun it, but he wasn’t taking her for a Sunday drive either, and the force of her acceleration pressed them back into the seat. Sam’s bent leg thumped against the back of their seat as his weight pushed against Dean's stomach.

Baby's tires kicked up dirt as they hightailed it through the salvage yard, and Dean held onto his brother with both arms as the she drifted around a corner. Up ahead, Dean could see the end of the driveway. Bobby slowed her down just long enough to check for traffic, then swung her out onto the road. There was a quick squeal of tires as her backend got loose, but then her tires gripped the pavement, and Bobby put the hammer down.

Baby is an American muscle car and she always loves an opportunity to go hard and go fast. She can get her big, heavy ass from 0-60 in 6.4 seconds; once Dean got it as low as 6.2. It's what she was made for. So, when Bobby told her what they needed from her, she was eager to perform and responded with a powerful, throaty growl. She took a long hit of fuel and her big-block engine roared, long and loud, as she propelled them forward. Baby gave them all she had, and in no time, they were hurtling through the back roads of South Dakota as she ate up the distance to the hospital.

In the back seat, Dean angled himself against the door to and give Sam a little more room. He held his brother’s head, cradled in his arm, and could feel the water from Sam’s soaked hair drip onto his leg and leach through his jeans. Using his free hand, Dean adjusted the towel wrapped around Sam's wounded arm, and then took over holding the one he had pressed to his eyes.

Sam let him move his hand away and brought it back, behind his wet head, and latched onto Dean's arm.

“Hang on, Sammy,” Dean soothed, “Gonna get you all doped up on the good stuff real soon.”

"Heads up," Bobby said, and Dean saw him getting ready to toss him a bottle of drinking water.  He caught it and cracked the seal.

"Some water, Sam," he said and touched the rim to Sam's lips. His brother released the grip on his arm and took the bottle from him. Dean watched as his forehead creased from the effort as he took long pulls from the bottle. When he had half of it drained, Dean placed his hand over Sam's, "Okay, that's enough for now." He pulled the bottle away and recapped it. "Your system's probably all wigged out right now; let's make sure that's going to stay down." He wedged the bottle between his hip and Sam's waist.

There was a hiss, and then Sam grabbed at his t-shirt with his good hand. He tugged it down, pulling it away from the burns near his collarbone.

Bobby stole a glance at them, and then he was driving with one hand on the wheel. The car made a slight jerk to the right while he fumbled around with something in the front. After a moment, he held up a dripping hand towel.

Dean shifted as little as possible as he reached for the towel, but Sam still groaned from the movement. Dean froze, and then settled them back, "Just toss it."

Bobby pitched it back and Dean snatched it out of the air.  Water droplets flung off of the towel and sprinkled down over them. Dean quickly folded the dripping towel length-wise.

"Gonna lay a cool cloth on your face, Sam," Dean warned. Beginning at his temple, and going as tender and careful as he could, he laid it against the side of his brother’s face, neck, and down across his chest.

"Ready for another?" Bobby asked.

Dean held his hand up in response, and Bobby tossed it.

"One more time, Sammy." Dean let him know what was coming, but Sam still flinched. He sucked in a hiss and grunted when the soothing cloth touched a couple of the more damaged areas.

Dean frowned, "I know, man. Hang in there," he said while laying the last part of the towel over the redness on his chest.

"Bobby, pass me that jug." Dean said looking up, but Bobby was already holding it up over the back of the seat. And, this time Dean had no choice but to lean forward to grab it.

“Hang on, Sam; gotta move for just a sec,” he warned, and tightened the hold he had around his brother, cradling him to himself a little closer. Anything he could think of to help hold him steady as he reached forward.

Sam exhaled a silent grunt. His grip on Dean's bicep tightened as he drew his knee in, moving his foot to the door. Sam pushed against it, and Dean heard the panel groan and give a little pop, but he didn't give one damn. He knew Baby wouldn't take it personally.

"Easy, Sam," His words were soft with compassion as Dean settled them back into the seat. He didn't waste any time and allowed a thin flow of the cool water to spill from the jug. Dean could see the relief it gave Sam as he started to relax a little and the grip on his arm was downgraded from crushing to uncomfortably intense.

Dean followed a continuous path, as he dribbled the water over his brother’s eyes, face, chest, arm, and then back to his eyes... Dean closed his own for a moment and was selfishly grateful that Sam couldn’t see through the towels. Because, if he could, he’d take a whopping two seconds to read him, and then he’d be screwed. All his confident, every-thing’s-gonna-be-fine attitude would be trashed, because Sam would see what he was really feeling, and then—yeah, he’d be screwed.

Dean wasn’t concerned, anxious, or even worried. He was flat-out scared with a heaping side of panic. He’d gotten a good look at Sam's eyes while he was forcing them open while Bobby flushed them out. They were intact. Awesome. They weren’t bleeding enough to notice past all the water. Double awesome. But, they were both fucking blood-red.

And, we’re not talking about blood-shot, here, where maybe the whites were really red, but you could still make out lines of veins stretching through to the iris. No; the entire white was red. He could see Sam’s pupil, his iris, and then there was only a dark, rich red where the whites should have been.

Being that close to the epicenter of the explosion, there was pretty much no question that his eyes were exposed to an intense heat and flying debris.  And, the way Sam had been palming them before Dean could stop him, well, Dean didn’t want to think about how that debris could have been scratching and gouging as his brother pressed against his eyes.

He couldn’t think about that just now. If they got a bad report, then yeah, he’d be all over that motherfucker to get their lives figured out. But, for this moment, these last few minutes before they got there, he'd give himself a reprieve, on thinking about the what-if’s. It was his last-ditch effort to keep his shit together.

Bobby turned onto a dirt road and the difference in the sound of the road brought Dean out from his thoughts. Aside from the sound of the engine, the dirt road outside, and an occasional grunt from Sam, the car was quiet. Dean looked his brother over. He hadn’t spoken since he was pleading with them to stop flushing out his eyes. He knew it was because Sam was concentrating on keeping a hold on the pain. Trying to compartmentalize it away and not let it overtake him.

Keeping up with the water’s same, steady, slow rate he asked, "Bobby, how much longer?"

The hunter tilted his head as he calculated a quick estimate, "Maybe another five; give or take a minute." Bobby steered the car around a ninety-degree turn, “Shit; hold on.” He said right before Baby plowed through a rough patch job in the old county road.

Dean held Sam close again, trying his best to keep him steady, but they got jostled pretty hard as she bounced and lurched through the ruts. Sam’s grip on his arm went back to crushing as he released a tense grunt and pressed against the door again.

Bobby's eyes darted to the mirror, "Sorry, kid."

Dean was about to bitch at Bobby about his driving, but logic promptly shut that down. It reminded him that, right now, Sam needed speed over comfort. 

Using up the last of the water, he chucked the empty jug over the front passenger seat. Bobby was already holding up the last, partial gallon of water, and Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder, "Gotta move again, Sammy."

Dean stretched his arm out as far as he possibly could, but still had to lean in a bit. Sam was quiet this time, but still squeezed his arm and raised that same knee again until they settled back.

He knew some aches and pains would be a no-brainer, considering how the blast had thrown his brother. He'd counted on it, in a few hours, after it was all over and Sam had stopped moving around. After the adrenaline faded, and his muscles had cooled down, that’s when the real stiffness would set in. However, if all that was already happening? Crap. That was so _not_ a good sign.

Dean's eyes stung and his throat tried to strangle him as he started pouring again. He swallowed a couple of times, but his voice still came out husky with emotion, "Fuck, Bobby. What the hell did you have in that pile?"

Bobby bypassed the mirror this time and whipped his head around toward the back of the car, and hissed, "Don't you go blamin' this on me!" He looked back at the road, then tossed another look over his shoulder, "Ain't nothin' was in that pile except brush and dead grass."

Dean snapped his head up, growling, "Yeah, well, there must've been something, because kerosene doesn't just explode like that!"

"Yeah, and I'm telling ya, Dean, only thing in that pile was _brush!"_

Dean kept pouring the water as it continued to drip off the saturated towels, ran down Sam's head, pooled in the hallow of his throat, and effectively soaking them both. "Think, Bobby!" Dean snapped, "Something else must have been nearby. Uh, I don’t old know…, an old propane tank or a crate of old Aerosol cans—"

Bobby was just up there shaking his head against what he was saying, and Dean got pissed, "Bobby, they're gonna need to know what the hell exploded so they can treat him for it!"

"How _stupid_ do you think I am, boy?" Bobby growled, "I know how to clear a damn area before—"

_"Was... wasn't kerosene."_

The sound of Sam's voice shut Bobby up quick, and Dean's steely gaze jumped from the mirror, down to his brother. He gave Sam's shoulder a little squeeze, "What'd ya say, Sam?"

Sam swallowed and tipped his head back against Dean's arm. His lips worked for a second before he pushed out a voice that was worn thin from pain, "Wasn't... kerosene. On the pile."

"Whad'ya mean, it wasn't kerosene?" Bobby asked, glaring into the mirror, and carefully delivered each of his words.

Sam swallowed again and pressed his lips together as he cleared his throat, "I could smell it. Right before Billy opened his lighter." He stopped and his head did a little twitch toward Dean's chest, "…gasoline."

 _"What?"_ Bobby squawked in disbelief.

Dean was absolutely positive he had heard wrong, because surely no one could be _that_ stupid. But, he had to ask anyway, and when he did, his voice dipped lower, taking on that hushed and dangerous edge. "The fuck, you say?"

Sam pressed back against Dean's arm again, "He used gas on the pile."

Bobby's grip on the steering wheel tightened as he wrenched his hands around it. Grumbling curses tumbled from his lips, but Dean couldn't hear him anymore. A darkness was overshadowing him, as it crept in from the edges. The sudden urge to break something became almost unbearable. His demeanor slid into a slow burn and the hold he had on his brother took a leap from supportive, to fierce and protective.

"I ran at him,” Sam started to speak again, “…tried to get him to stop, but it was too late. Billy flipped back the lid to his Zippo; must have sparked…"

Sam paused and his head made the slightest flinch against Dean again. "I—I don't think he even touched the wheel before the pile exploded."

"Of all the stupid..., half-witted, moronic, dumbass..."

The rest of Bobby's rant was lost on Dean as a cloud of rage settled in. Growling against the beast, he fought against himself to stay in control.  " _Kill him_... I'm gonna— Bobby, I am going to fucking _kill_ him. I swear; he's a fucking dead man!"

“You’n me both,” Bobby growled, shaking his head against the very idea. “How stupid do you have to be to—“ His anger cut him off and he tilted his head, exhaling hard, “I _told_ that boy to use the kerosene—“

The sound of Bobby’s strife and guilt over the entire situation filtered through the layers of Dean’s fury. Bobby was up there, taking all the blame and making himself the one at fault for Sam being in the condition he was in. Dean knew he was beating himself up for not going out there and doing it himself. He knew the man was somehow trying to put all this onto his shoulders.

Dean sighed, “I know, Bobby, I heard—“

"They're not even in the same shed." Bobby finished with disbelief, and then slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “Damn it to hell!”

“Bobby calm down, alright?” Dean snapped, feeling like a complete hypocrite, considering he was having a hell of a time doing the same. His breathing was tight, his chest even tighter, and he couldn’t stop thinking about what he going to do to that asshat once he caught up to him.

But, for right now, they just needed to focus on helping his brother. 

“Just calm down,” Dean said again, talking to both Bobby and himself.  Then a thought popped into his head, and he looked back to Sam. “Dude, I thought you went to show him which shed had the kerosene?”

Sam huffed and sucked his lips, “I _did._ Walked him right to it; he even looked inside.”

Dean frowned, “Then how the hell did he grab the wrong stuff?”

Sam grimaced and pushed back against Dean’s arm again, “Don’t know. He was about to grab a container, but Rufus asked for help with something. Uh, after that, Billy headed toward the house with Cooper…,”

Sam was quiet for a beat, “I don’t know. I was still over with Rufus. I remember Billy coming back out, but, then it had been a while—” He got cut off by a grunt and then his head did that same little twitch against Dean. “He still hadn’t lit the pile…went to see if he needed help. And that’s when I smelled the gas; and then it blew.”

Dean shook his head, trying to figure out what went wrong, “How in the _hell_ did he—”

“—smelled something else, too.”

“On the pile?”

Sam started to shake his head, but stopped with a soft gasp, "No. On Billy.”

"What; like, booze?"

Sam huffed again, "Ah, not exactly."

Dean looked up at Bobby in the mirror and recognized a look of unease. He frowned, “What’s he talking about, Bobby?”

Bobby shook his head, “Nah…”

“Bobby!”

The older hunter shook his head. One look at his weary expression, and Dean knew, that _Bobby_ knew, he wasn't going to like the answer. He took a breath and, “Billy used to like to... sample the local grass; but—”

 _“What?”_ Dean shouted, “Are you joking?! He’s a fucking stoner and you let him—“

“—Kid’s been clean for goin’ on six years!" Bobby shouted back. "Got busted for being a user during a drug test at work. Lost a damn good job and his wife took it outta his ass. Threatened to leave him. He quit usin' after that, and as far as I _know_ , hadn't touched the stuff since. I've worked with him plenty of times, on plenty of hunts; never gave me reason to believe he'd started smoking it again."

 _"Oh...,_ you _gotta_ be kidding me!" Dean thumped his head back against the window and looked out the windshield as Bobby merged onto the highway.

"No," Dean shook his head and glared at Bobby in the mirror again. "There's no—" his temper overtook him and he had to take a breath to process. "Bobby. How the _hell_ hadn't you noticed?!"

_"Dean—"_

"Because he ain't been usin'!"

"Well," Dean was incredulous, "Obviously, he has!"

"Dean—"

"Well, then, _obviously_ I'm just too _stupid_ to pick up on it! That it?"

"I'm sorry, Bobby, but, it's not all that tricky to—"

"Dean!"

"What!" He snapped, tearing his eyes from Bobby's smoldering glare, and looked down at his brother.

"Lay off... alright?"

"Sam, no—"

"Look." Sam exhaled a soft grunt as he squirmed a little. "I didn't notice anything until I was standing right up on him; in the doorway of the shed. And, it was so faint, I'm not even positive that's what it was."

"Pot's got a pretty distinguishable smell, Sammy."

"Yeah, but like I said, it was real faint. He could have just as easily picked it up by standing near someone else that was smoking."

Dean shook his head and exhaled hard through his nose.

"I'll get with Cooper," Bobby started and Dean looked back up at the mirror. Bobby looked at the road and then back at Dean, "He'll give it to me straight."

Bobby looked back to the road a few times, but held his gaze until Sam adjusted his arm and his soft gasp stole Dean's attention away. Sam pressed back against him, forcing a groan through clenched teeth and he placed a hand on his brother's forehead. 

They were coming up to a blue highway sign that told them the exit for the hospital was three miles ahead. He looked back down, “We’re almost there, Sam. Couple more miles, man. You’re going to be doing a lot better real soon.”

Sam flashed him a nervous smile, “Yeah, ah," he blew out a tight, humorless snicker, "can't say I share the same opinion.”

Dean frowned down at the towels covering most of his brother’s face. He looked at how Sam’s mouth was set in that patented, uneasy scowl, and asked a question he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to.

“Why? What do you mean?”

"Dean," Sam’s lips pressed together and Dean didn't need to move the towels to know his face was drawn into a worried scowl. “When you had my eyes open… I couldn’t… make anything out. I—Dean, I couldn’t see.

Dozens of thoughts and scenarios rushed through his mind. And, the one thing he hadn't been allowing himself to think about, sucker-punched him right in the gut. He took a second to force his voice to remain calm and confident, and without a trace of the emotions trying to pummel him into a sloppy mess.

Dean cleared his throat, “Was it all dark?"

“No, it wasn’t dark, but everything was just shadows. Lights and darks. I couldn’t… Dean, I couldn't even make you out.”

 _Couldn’t make you out._ He was only inches from Sam’s face, and his brother couldn't even make out his silhouette? That familiar panic began to bubble up from his gut and he shut it down as it reached his chest, making his heart stutter.

Continually fighting against the panic and the fear was wearing him down to his last nerve. He wasn't going to be able to keep up the charade much longer, but, the hospital was only a few miles away. He could grip it until then. After they got Sam settled, if he had to, he could find a dark corner somewhere to unravel.

But, for right then, he clung onto his good friend, Logic. “Sam, don’t worry about that," he spoke carefully again, making certain he still came across as calm and confident, "Bobby was dumping water in your eyes, I was probably too close to really focus on, and, _if_ there is some sort of loss of vision, I’m sure it’s just temporary.”

Sam’s breathing quickened, “But, what if it’s not?”

“Sammy, I said, don’t worry about that now. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“But, _Dean,”_ Sam breathed and when he continued, there was a slight tremor in his voice, “… what if it’s _not?”_

Dean swallowed hard and held his brother a little closer. He squeezed his eyes shut against the watery sting, and heard Baby open up with a roar as Bobby urged her on.

**_TBC..._ **


	3. Chapter 3

_A couple of things before you dive into this chapter… First off, this chapter is a MONSTER. It’s twice as long as any of my typical chapters and has given me nothing but trouble since I first began to draft it. I’m fairly unsatisfied at how it turned out. I have spent days trying to fix it, but it just won’t cooperate with me. In the end, I just had to stop tinkering and post it, before it rose up and killed me. Also, because of all of the tinkering and editing, I'm certain that there will be some glaring mistakes as you read. I caught as many as I could. I apologize in advance if the chapter disappoints._

 

It was quiet in the Emergency Room at 4:23 in the afternoon on a Sunday. There was a handful of people scattered around the seating area waiting to be seen; none of them an actual emergency.

A couple of TVs were on. One broadcasted a news station and the other a fishing program. Every so often a phone rang from somewhere behind the admissions desk, and even less often, the clatter of the large double-doors that led to the Emergency Department would open with an automated whine. A nurse in scrubs would emerge, holding a patient file, and every head in the room would pop up, hoping that their name would be the next one called.

That hadn't happened for a while, so the room's occupants simply sat in a tense silence, either gazing at one of the TVs, doodled around on their phone, or just stared out the window to zone out.

The sharp sound of rubber painting the pavement had heads turning as a sleek, black muscle car skidded to a stop just outside the entrance. The car lurched forward from its momentum, and then settled back, idling with a low growl as the diver jumped out and grabbed the back door that was already swinging open.

There was a coordinated effort by the driver and the guy that got out of the back to haul out another guy. The two guys from the back organized themselves as the driver and the one holding up the other guy had a couple of words. Then, the driver jumped back in the car and drove off as the pair from the backseat moved toward the entrance.

“Need some help here?” Dean hollered as they stumbled through the breezeway to the Emergency Room. He could feel the heavy weight of the looks thrown in their direction, and tightened his grip around his brother's waist.

A woman in black scrubs looked up from behind the admissions station. She gave the sight of the two of them staggering through the sliding doors a startled look, then she was rounding the long counter and rushing toward them.

Dean grimaced and adjusted the arm Sam had slung around his neck, “You’re limping.”

“I noticed.”

Dean glanced to his right at the face hanging low, "Where?”

"Lower back," Sam's voice was tight when he answered, and he dropped his head a little further into the hand holding the wet cloth over his eyes.

"Should have had let Bobby run in and grab some reinforcements."

"I can make it."

Dean huffed in disagreement and looked at the nurse approaching them saying, "Hey; my brother got caught up in a gasoline explosion. He's got first and I think some second-degree burns.  His eyes are bad, though. He can't see and they've got him in a lot of pain."

Her eyes scanned Sam, made a quick assessment, and then she nodded. "Let me grab a wheelchair."

Oka—"

"—No." Sam breathed, "Let's just go. Please."

“Okay, honey,” she placed a hand to his back. "C'mon; we'll go straight back," she said, leading them toward that coveted set of double doors, when an angry voice piped up from behind.

"What the hell is this?"

He could feel that familiar knee-jerk reaction of protection flare from within. Dean took a calculated look over toward the waiting area, and narrowed his vision at a very unhappy-looking guy who was in the process of standing up.

Dean pressed a palm against Sam’s chest, signaling a change in their momentum. There was something about the guy that spelled trouble, and instinct had him standing just a little taller. He rolled his shoulders back and could feel Sam tense beside him in response to the adjustment of his posture.

The lady next to angry dude looked at the guy, then she looked at Sam and Dean, and then back to angry dude. She tugged on his wrist, hissing, "Sit _down,_ Frank."

Angry dude yanked his arm away, "Naw, this is bullshit!" He griped and started strutting their way, "I've been sitting here waiting to be seen for over an hour, and this guy just walks in and goes straight back?"

The nurse moved to intercept, but the anxious, on-edge, frazzled, protective, worn out, and now thoroughly _pissed_ hunter, beat her to it.

“Hey!” Dean barked over his shoulder and jerked around to face the guy, staggering him and Sam back a step in the process.

“Keep walkin’ this way, Dickwad, and I’ll be _more_ than happy to fix it so they take you back there right now,” Dean spat with a dangerous glare, challenging angry dude, and almost _wishing_ he would take him up on the threat.

The woman with angry dude scurried forward, clutching her purse to her chest and looking at Dean like he might actually eat angry dude alive. She kept wide, unblinking eyes on him while tugging back on angry dude’s arm again, “Come _on,_ Frank.”

Dean and Frank face off in a brief stare down, but then he waved Dean off like he wasn’t worth the time, and allowed the woman pull him back to their seats.

Dean continued to glare as he gave his brother’s chest a pat, “C’mon, Sammy,” he said, holding the piercing stare another second, and then turned them toward the nurse again. “Let’s get you looked at and fixed up.”

The nurse used her badge against a sensor on the wall. There was a chirp and then the doors swung inward. She placed her hand against Sam's back again, and Dean knew it was to offer his brother comfort. But, he also knew the gesture had more to do with how Sam was starting to lean on him more, and she needed to be ready in the event his brother went down.

Dean looked across Sam to the nurse, "Hey, um, our uncle brought us in; he dropped us off and then went to park the car."

"Sure. I'll let the team know and they'll bring him back after they've got Sam settled."

Satisfied that was ironed out, Dean adjusted his hold on his brother's waist, "Almost there, Sammy," he said as they continued to make their way down the short hallway.

The stink of Hospital surrounded Dean, and with it, brought out the shadows from some of their crappier times. Over the past twenty-something years, the Winchester boys rarely saw past the outside of a hospital's walls, even though they probably needed to more times than Dean cared to count. But, the lack of honest insurance, and a pesky little thing called money, kept their trips minimized to the direst of medical emergencies that they couldn't, or, if he was going to be completely honest with himself, really _shouldn’t,_ have handled on their own. Those he could probably easily count, but had no desire to.

"Thermal burns to the face; I need a room!" The nurse shouted, ripping Dean from his thoughts.

His attention jumped from her to the large, central desk in the middle of the department, and the guy behind it who stood up, pointing, "Put him in Trauma 2, Jen."

"Okay, man," Dean grunted as they stumbled into the exam room. "Gurney's right in front of you; go ahead and lie down," he said, unwrapping Sam's arm from his neck. He guided his brother's hand to the mattress and gripped his shoulders, steading him as he turned and propped a hip up on the bed.

An ER team started to file in as Dean was laying Sam back, and the nurse who brought them in, Jen, started to rattle off information, "All right, guys, this is Sam. He was in close proximity to a gasoline vapor explosion. Thermal flash burns to the eyes, face, neck, chest, forearm and hand. Loss of vision with acute pain. Aware and responsive. Came in mostly under his own power with help from his brother."

Sidling up to the gurney, the doctor slipped his hands into a pair of blue Latex gloves and examined Sam with his eyes as he listened to all of the details. An efficient scurry of activity came to life as two other nurses moved around them, gathering supplies and setting up equipment. The sound and energy from all of the bustle put a crease of apprehension in Sam's brow. Tensing, he drew up a knee and turned his face toward where Dean was standing.

Dean squeezed his shoulder, confirming he was still there with him and laid a hand on his head. Leaning in, he spoke softly, "Easy. You’re ok."

Sam's brow pinched a little more and Dean couldn't tell if it was from his unease or from the pain, but then the doctor spoke his name, and Sam turned his head in the other direction.

"Sam." The physician said, and placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "I'm Dr. Reid. Do you know where you are?"

"Yeah."

"Where?"

Sam pressed his head back against the gurney and grunted, "ER."

"Good. What year is it?"

"Ah, 2008."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

Sam thought around a brief scowl and replied with, "Asshole used gasoline to light a brush pile. Tried to stop him. Couldn't. It exploded."

The doctor smirked at the embellishment and nodded. "Squeeze my hand? Good; GCS is 15. He's fully responsive and alert. Sam, are you allergic to anything?"

"No."

"Yeah, but," Dean piped up, "He doesn't tolerate Morphine well at all."

Dr. Reid told someone in the room to make a note of it, and Dean didn't have a clue who he was talking to, because everyone was busy doing something else. He figured the message got received though, because the team continued to move around him in Sam with practiced precision.

Dean kept a hand on his brother's shoulder, giving it a squeeze every now and then, and tried to stay out of the way as they worked. A young brunette nurse leaned in to speak to Sam, touching his shoulder when she addressed him, and Sam's head did a little jerk toward her voice. After listening for a bit, he nodded, and she slipped a pulse oximeter on to his finger while Jen snaked a group of electrodes under his shirt and began pressing them to his chest and sides.

Dr. Reid was shining a light up Sam's nose and then he looked around the back of his mouth, and declared to whoever was making notes, "Airways and blood gasses look good; no signs of edema. Let's expose his chest and see the burns there—" The doctor cut off when Sam groaned and pressed himself back against the cushion on the gurney.

Dean frowned, smoothing a hand over the side of his brother's head. Sam turned into his touch, his good hand shooting out and smacking against his stomach. The kid grabbed a handful of his shirt, twisting the material in his fist. And, Dean's heart followed suit as it twisted with a rush of nearly-intolerable empathy.

"Sam,” Reid said, and touched his shoulder, "Bear with me for another minute or two; need to give you a quick once-over to make sure we're not missing anything critical, then we'll get your eyes figured out. Okay?"

Sam winced with a nod. He was starting to breathe faster again, and Dean knew the pain was really wearing him down. He also knew that they wouldn't be able to give him anything until after they had him triaged.

"Sam," a different, older, nurse leaned in and spoke near his face. "Honey, we're going to cut your shirt off. That way it won't rub against any of the burns as it comes off. Okay?" She said, taking Sam's shirt by the hem and pulled it taut to prepare the cut, causing him to jump a little.

“Easy, Sammy,” Dean squeezed his shoulder again, "You're okay. The nurse is just cutting your shirt.”

“Body temp is 97.9; he might be starting to lose heat.”

Reid shot a frown down at Sam, “Yeah, and that wet head is going to be working against us. Kill the a/c.”

“Ah, yeah,” Dean spoke up and rubbed the back of his neck, “That’s my doing.”

A different brunette nurse leaned out into the hallway, shouting, “Alex, zero the a/c in Trauma 2!”

“On the way over here,” Dean continued, “I had some wet towels on his burns and I just kept soaking them with distilled water.”

“That’s good first-aid.”

Dean looked up at the new voice that had arrived. Another doctor, an older guy, stood at the foot of the gurney, taking in Dean’s soaked shirt and jeans and gave him a nod, saying, “You did good; cooled the burns and kept them from doing more damage. But, now we got to work at keeping his temp stable.”

Dean nodded, more to himself than anything, and looked back at his brother while the lead physician continued to give out orders.

“Alright I want an IV line started. Warm saline. Get his head towed off and get him covered with a heated blanket. I want his temp monitored constantly." He touched Sam's shoulder and Dean noticed how he did that every time he was about to speak to his brother; he knew it was because, at the moment, Sam wasn't seeing a damn thing.

"Sam, where’s your pain?"

A nurse started to cover him with a blanket and he squirmed a little, "Kind of all over, but my eyes are killing me."

"Scale from 1-10, 10 being most pain imaginable, where are you at?"

"Uh…," Sam released a humorless laugh and flashed a quick, uneasy smile. "Seven."

Dean's fingers flexed briefly in his brother's hair and, again, he began to be swallowed by his rage over the fact that Sam was in the friggin Emergency Room, suffering from some serious pain, God knows what was going to happen with his vision, and all because of the sheer stupidity of someone else.

"Give him 5 of Lorcet." The doctor touched Sam's shoulder. "Sam, that should take the edge off. For now, we're just looking to get your pain manageable. I still need you lucid for a little while longer, and then we'll get you nice and comfortable. Okay?"

Sam grimaced, but nodded.

"Temp: 97.4."

"Get him another blanket and get his head covered." 

Dean scowled at the reading and then turned to the doctor, "What's going on? Why does his temperature keep dropping?"

"It's normal with burn victims—Sam, I'm going to take a look at the burns to your hand and arm; don't worry, I won't touch them yet," Reid said, patting his brother's shoulder, then looked back at Dean. "Heat loss is common with burns; especially to those with burns to more than ten percent of their body.  The damaged areas on the outer layer of Sam's skin aren't able to prevent fluid evaporation or hold in his body temperature. Both those factors contribute to a loss of body heat."

"Going to need an Ophthalmology consult," the older physician spoke up.

Reid thought, and then pointed at a nurse, "Call up Groenendyk. He’s up on four. Tell him we’ve got a priority two flash burn to the eyes; probable debridement necessary."

Dean watched the nurse rush to the phone on the wall as another was brushing past her as she came back into the room with a second blanket from the warmer, while Jen was injecting what he hoped were pain meds into Sam's IV line.

He placed his hand on the towel covering his little brother's head and gave it another slight squeeze, silently telling him he was okay. Or, maybe he was telling himself that. Either way, it didn’t take long for the drugs to kick in and, it was then that Dean finally saw some of the tension in Sam's shoulders begin to fade.

Again, the lead physician touched his brother's shoulder, "Sam, we're going to give the pain medicine a chance to really set in before we look at your eyes or touch the burns. In the meantime, I'm going to check you over for any other injuries you might have sustained from the explosion, itself."

The physician was careful to avoid any damaged areas as he pressed along Sam's chest and ribs, and asked every so often if any of it hurt. Next, he moved down to Sam's stomach and did the same, "Abdomen is soft with no painful response. BP is good, so no internal bleeding—Sam, is there anywhere besides your eyes, and the burns, that have you in pain?"

"Um, my ear hurts."

"Which one?"

"Ah, _damn it_ ; his right ear." Dean answered, frustrated with himself for forgetting. "It was bleeding at first but, after pouring water all over his face, it washed off, and I forgot to mention it."

"That's understandable, considering everything that's going on." The doctor said, looking in Sam's ear. "Yup; membrane's ruptured."

Dean chewed on his lip, and watched while the physician continued to look through the instrument as he moved it around in his brother's ear some more.

"Doesn't look severe enough to require surgery; should heal on its own with no problem," he moved around the head of the gurney to check the other ear, and then asked Sam if he was in pain anywhere else.

"Uhm...," Sam said again, this time sounding a little dreamy. The hand he'd been using to hold the towel to his eyes started to fall away for a second, and he jerked it back up.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean smiled a little, thinking of how his brother had always been a lightweight when it came to narcotic pain relievers. "I'll hold it for you," he said, placing his hand over the towel and gently pulled Sam's hand out from under his. "I got it. Just relax."

Sam's brow pinched in a quick frown, but he allowed Dean to bring his arm down and then also released the death grip he had on his shirt. He brought his hand back down to rest across his stomach, and then he must have remembered he was supposed to be answering the doctor's question, because he said, "Uh, yeah. Kind of all over."

"His lower back had him limping by time we got here," Dean told the doctor. 

The older doctor nodded, "Could be a strained hip flexor from being thrown. All sorts of aches and pains are going to start popping up from that."

Reid touched Sam's shoulder, "Sam, I'm going sit you up so I can look at your back, Okay?"

"Yeah," Sam said, and started to sit up.

Even though he'd been given a starter dose of pain meds, he still winced with a grunt as he moved forward, and Dean put his free hand to Sam's back to help ease him up.

"You've got a large bruise on the back of your left shoulder." The doctor said, "Did you get hit with anything?"

"Ah, I don't know. I don't think so."

"Can you rotate your arm for me,” Reid asked, taking him by the elbow, and manipulated it in all directions, testing out the joint, "Any pain from movement?"

"No."

"When you were thrown, do you know if you landed on your shoulder?"

Sam was quiet and then said, "I’m not sure. I don't really remember."

“That’s okay, Sam." Reid said, and leaned in to feel the vertebrae from his neck to his lower back, and then pressed against his kidneys, "Any pain in your flank?"

Sam shook his head and the doctor began to ease him back.

Dean looked at the doctor, "You think he hit his head?"

"I'm not too concerned," He replied and touched Sam's shoulder, "Sam, does your head hurt at all?"

"Yeah; some."

"From 1-10?"

Sam considered his answer and replied with, "About a three; maybe a little more."

“Do you know how far you were thrown?”

Sam shook his head, and the doctor looked across his patient to Dean, “Did you see where he landed?”

“Ah, yeah, for the most part,” Dean replayed the part where he found Sam and Rufus, and quickly came up with an estimate. "Around ten to fifteen feet.”

"Okay, yeah. That’s going to make him pretty darn sore, and a loss of time surrounding a traumatic injury is pretty normal. Sam's aware of where he is and what's going on, so, again, I'm not too concerned. But, we'll get a CT scan anyway, just to be sure. A concussion is a good possibility from the force of the blast alone.”

A large man, in both height and circumference, strode into the room and introduced himself as Dr. Groenendyk, the eye doctor. He touched the back of Sam's good hand before taking it in an easy grip, and greeted Sam with a handshake.

Reid gave the eye doctor a rundown of events, and the man nodded along as he digested the information. Then he gave Sam's arm a pat, "Okay, Sam. This is what we're going to do. I know your eyes are hurting a lot, and we're going to take care of that right now. I'm going to put in some numbing eye drops and then you won't feel any more pain."

He patted Sam's arm again and then asked one of the nurses to turn off all but the cabinet lights in the room. "Sam, I know that you've probably got some serious photosensitivity happening right now, so we've got the room nice and dim. I'm going to remove the towel from your eyes now. Okay?"

Dean felt his brother tense in response, but was relieved when he didn't fight him on it. The doctor was gentle as he peeled back the towel, and then handed it to a nurse.

Because of the dim lighting, it was difficult to see how red the burns to the lids of Sam's eyes were. But, regardless of the narcotic, Dean had no problem at all making out the tells of pain that continued to mark his brother's features.

Dean rested his hand on the towel covering Sam’s head and gave it another reassuring grip. His touch seemed to break down a little of Sam's fortitude, because his respirations got heavy and choppy, and the kid breathed out a muffled whimper.

Dean flexed his fingers against Sam's head and gripped his upper arm, "Easy, Sammy. Worst of it is almost over. Eye doc's getting a few things together, then it'll be all over."

The older physician patted Sam's shoulder, "No need to be tough and brave in here, son. You wouldn't be the first, nor the last, grown man to shed a few tears of pain back here. Hell, I've seen a three-hundred-pound motorcycle gang member— inked from head to toe—openly _bawl_ over getting his nose set."

That got a watery laugh out of Sam and the physician patted his shoulder again, "God's honest truth. And, let me tell you, Sam; his ordeal? Nothing compared to what you're going through. You've got some pretty serious injuries, here." He delivered a couple more pats to Sam's shoulder, and then spoke in a serious, heartfelt tone, "You hearing what I'm saying, son?"

A little of the tension eased from his features and, clearing his throat, Sam nodded, "Yeah."

The curtain covering the doorway was pulled back, and Jen and Bobby walked in just as the eye doctor was asking Sam if he could open his eyes for him. Dean greeted Bobby with a nod and then brought his attention back down to his brother as he shook his head.

"I... I can't."

"That's okay, Sam," the eye doctor said. "It's pretty hard to convince the eyes to open when they're injured."

Dean watched as the man pulled on his own pair of blue latex gloves, and blinked at how they stretched around the doctor’s large hand, making it look like new skin.

Groenendyk picked up a small bottle and leaned over his brother, "Sam, I'm just going to ease your lid open and give you some eye drops. I won't lie; it's going to hurt at first, but then the drops will numb your eye after a few seconds, and the pain will go away. Okay? Here we go."

Dean was just about as surprised as Sam was when the doctor wasted no pleasantries before laying his large hand over the top of his brother's head and used his thumb to peel back the lid to his left eye.

Sam cried out, his hands going straight for his face, and Dean and the older physician each grabbed a hand. Dean held on with a solid grip, as Sam pulled and twisted against him. He shot a glance over to the doctor holding Sam’s injured hand, but the man was being mindful of the burns. Dean looked back at his brother as they held him back with a firm grip, keeping his hands from getting any closer to his face.

Sam thrashed on the gurney. He started to push off and twist at the waist. Bobby shot forward, grabbing his hips, and pressed them down against the mattress. It was taking just about everyone present in the room to hold Sam down, and all the while, the whole team was talking to him, speaking over the sound of his pained groans and grunts, telling him he was doing great, they're almost done, just a few more seconds, he's doing great, almost done, almost done, doing great—

The lead physician held Sam’s head still while the eye doctor administered about five drops, and then released the lid.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut with a raw groan and tried to turn his head away.

Dean squeezed Sam's hand and pressed it against his chest as he leaned in close, "C'mon, Sammy, you got this, man. Almost done. I'm right here, okay, Sam? Bobby's back and we're both right here. You got this." Dean squeezed his brother's hand and noticed how Bobby patted Sam’s bent knee when he was mentioned.

A drop of clear liquid leaked from the corner of his brother’s eye and ran down the side of his face, and Dean tried to convince himself it was just from the eye drops.

"Hang in there, Sam," Reid said. "It hurts like a sonovabitch; I know. One more time and then no more pain. Hang in there."

The older physician still had a grip on Sam's hand and would pat the back of it every so often. He looked down, and frowned, "You're going to need help getting the right eye open, Tom."

Dr. Groenendyk rubbed Sam's arm, "Sam, I need you to try and relax for me. It hurts like hell, and squeezing your eyes shut against the pain is a natural response, but if you don't relax for me a little, it's going to make this even harder. Can you relax, just a little?"

Dean could tell Sam was working on it. His features smoothed out the tiniest bit, but his breathing was still coming in short, irregular bursts. The grip he had on his hand made Dean wonder if _he'd_ be needing some medical attention himself, after Sam was done hogging up all of the doctors in the department.

The eye doctor, Tom, looked at the older physician, "Alright, work the bottom lid for me."

The older man responded with a nod, and then looked at Bobby, "Can you take over for me?"

Without missing a beat, Bobby strode forward and accepted the transfer. He gripped the kid's hand tightly and patted his shoulder, "Hang in there, Sam. Almost done."

Dean wondered if his brother was getting tired of hearing that.

"Okay, Sam," Groenendyk began, "Let's hurry up and get this one done so we can get rid of that pain. Ready? Here we go."

Both doctors immediately worked together and forced Sam's eye to open. It was the same outcome as last time: Sam yelled out and pulled against Dean and Bobby. Both of them had to push their free hand against his shoulders to keep him down. The blanket kept getting tugged lower, and got tangled in his legs as he writhed on the gurney. And, like before, everyone was talking over his pain, giving him the same sting of encouragements and platitudes.

Dean knew that, both times, it had taken only a couple of seconds for the doctor to get the drops into Sam’s eyes. But, holding his brother down while he fought against them and cried out against the pain, made it feel like it had taken much, much longer. But, the doctor got the drops in and then they both released him. 

"There, you go, Sam. All done." Groenendyk patted Sam's shoulder, "You did great, son. We'll leave you alone now and let the drops do their magic."

Sam closed his eyes tightly again, rolled toward Dean, and his face crumpled.

Dropping to a knee, Dean wrapped his arms around his little brother, gathering him to himself. Sam’s warm breath breezed along his throat and Dean rested the side of his jaw on his brother’s head. Damp hair pressed against the skin under his chin, and he realized Sam must have thrown the towel covering his head during all his struggling. Dean closed his eyes, his heart breaking as it raged after the bastard that did this to him.

Bobby’s hand landed on Sam’s shoulder with a firm grip, and Dean looked up at the older hunter. He saw the same pain and bitterness mirrored in their surrogate father’s eyes. They shared a promising look that blood would be spilled over Sam’s pain. And, heaven help the man, if Dean’s little brother suffered any amount of permanent damage.

Dean took a gentle hand and smoothed back the hair from Sam's eyes. Leaning forward, he was mindful of the tender skin on Sam’s face, and pressed his forehead to his brother's, "I know, Sammy. I know, man. I'm right here.” he said, repeatedly smoothing his hand over the back of Sam’s head. ”Right here, little brother. I'm right here."  He said, and said, and said, and just stayed like that until Sam was able to get himself calmed down.

And, really, it didn’t take very long at all. A lot quicker than Dean had anticipated. Sam’s breathing and trembling just sort of seeped away, and he seemed to sink into the cushion of the gurney as a psychical and emotional exhaustion settled over him.

Dean looked over his brother as he rested and thought about how quiet the room was, when just a moment ago it was a disharmonic commotion of racing heart tones, shouting voices and pained outcries.

Now, it was just the hushed trio of voices as the physicians talked about their game plan, a rustle of scrubs from the nurses as they moved around the room, and the blipping of a calming heartbeat. The radical difference of it all nearly made his ears ring.

The pulse oximeter appeared in his vision and Dean looked up to see the older nurse holding it out to him with a kind smile. He wasn't sure during which part of all of the thrashing Sam had lost it, but Dean looked back to it, and then accepted it. He was grateful, and maybe even just a little bit touched, by her compassion and forward thinking that having Dean reattach the monitor would be easier on Sam than one of them. Considering, what they’d just put the kid through.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said softly, and touched the back of his good hand, “just gonna put this back on your finger, okay?”  He slid the clip back on, and looked at his brother, freezing when he noticed Sam had his eyes open. His lids we parted just the smallest amount, but it was enough to put a smile on Dean’s face.

“Sammy?” Dean flicked his eyes up at Bobby, and that had the older hunter rounding his side of the gurney to squat down next to him.

Dean smoothed back his brother’s bangs a couple of times with nervous energy and moved right into his line of sight, “Sam? How’re you doin'?” Dean asked, trying to read the speculative expression painted on his brother’s face.

Sam blinked slowly a couple of times and then said, “Eyes don’t hurt anymore.”

Dean’s smile grew, “Yeah?” He smoothed back Sam’s hair again, feeling like it was twenty years ago and he was tending to a scared and hurt five-year-old, little brother. The level of tenderness and love that Dean felt was all but oozing out of him for everyone in the room to see, and he couldn’t give one damn.

“Yeah, but…”

When Sam didn’t continue, Bobby grabbed his shoulder and gave it a squeeze, “But, what, son?”

The amount of unabashed fear that manifested on Sam’s face twisted Dean’s heart into knots as he waited for his brother to answer.

“But, everything’s pretty dark.”

Dean looked over at Bobby and he’s pretty sure that unabashed fear on Sam’s face had infected his as well, because the man's free hand came up and grabbed Dean’s shoulder, giving it the same reassuring squeeze. He was quick to cover for Dean when his words wouldn’t work.

“Well,” Bobby started with a chuckle that was easygoing and familiar, and felt like home, “that's because it's pretty dark in here, kid.”

Sam swallowed, “Is it too dark to see me? Because, I… I can’t see you.”

Dean knew his voice would betray him if he tried to speak. So, he was beyond relieved when a large hand landed on the back of his brother's head and Groenendyk piped up for him.

"Sam, temporary loss of vision is very common after a trauma to the eyes. But, how about you let me look and see how badly your eyes are injured before we get too ahead of ourselves. Okay? Can you roll onto your back for me?"

Dean got to his feet as Sam pushed off the gurney and began to roll onto his back. He could tell by the way his brother moved, just how stiff and sore he was getting. No sooner than he considered this, did Sam give a strangled groan as he laid flat, and repositioned himself with a hiss.

Reid frowned, asking, “Sam; your back?”

A short huff of laughter preceded his reply, “Ah, yeah. It’s pretty locked up.”

The lead physician nodded and patted his shoulder, “We’ll get you something to help with that.”

“I’m cold, too.”

Dean looked at up at the monitor: 97.6. The fight had raised Sam’s temperature a little, but it was still low enough to be concerning.

The older nurse patted Sam’s shoulder, “I’ll go get a couple more blankets.”

“Lift your leg up, Sammy,” Dean said, tapping a knee, and worked at untangling him from the blankets. He was tugging them up to his shoulders as Groenendyk rolled over on a stool, pulling with him a metal tray covered with a blue towel and holding shiny instruments.

“Okay, Sam," the doctor pulled on a fresh pair of gloves. "Let's see what the story with your eyes is."

The doctor leaned over his brother and got to work. The entire time, Dean stood statue-still, chewed the side of his thumb, and observed. Every so often Groenendyk would ask Sam a question or have him look one way or the other. Then he took a seat again and patted Sam's shoulder.

"Sam, I'm almost done, but I finished with the part I needed you alert and cooperative for. Let's go ahead and get you comfortable, All right?" Groenendyk said, giving Reid a nod, who turned and spoke to a nurse.

"While they're getting that ready, how about I tell you what I think."

Sam turned to face the general direction of the doctor's voice, and nodded, "Okay."

"Okay," Groenendyk repeated, clapping his palms together, "Let me start by saying, I'm not seeing anything that would make me say, without a doubt, that we're looking at a permanent loss of vision.”

He looked up at Dean and Bobby, "Ah, which is good; obviously. What I _did_ see—" he brought his attention back down to Sam— “was, some distinct heat trauma; you have a minor corneal laceration to your right eye, and—" He looked up at Dean, "Did you flush out Sam’s eyes at the scene?"

Dean nodded, “Yeah.”

“Used almost two gallons of distilled,” added Bobby.

Groenendyk nodded, “Good. That’s very good, because, Sam, I also found dirt and some very fine wood fragments. It’s a very good thing that they flushed out your eyes right away. If that debris had been there this whole time, it could have easily caused more damage and, I wouldn’t be as optimistic as I am, about a full recovery.”

“Full recovery?” Dean asked, watching a nurse with a couple of syringes lean forward and speak softly to Sam, “So, he’s going to be okay?”

“I would be lying if I said I was certain Sam would make a full recovery; however, I’d also be lying if I said I didn’t think he would.” Groenendyk sighed, “To put it simply, the eye has a pretty amazing ability to heal itself. And, it also heals very quickly. Right now, there is simply no way for me to be able to give you a definitive answer. The corneal laceration doesn’t require surgery, so that’s a big positive right there. The scratches from flying debris seem to be minor enough that I don’t anticipate any lasting effects, really it’s the heat trauma from the flash burn that will make or break us.”

“So, we get to play the hurry-up-and-wait game.”

Groenendyk looked at Bobby and nodded, “Unfortunately, yes. That’s the best I can tell you at this very moment.”

Dean took a deep breath and scrubbed his hands through his hair. He looked down at Sam to see what his brother had to say about all this, but— “Sammy?”

“Elvis has left the building…,” Bobby muttered from over Dean’s shoulder, then looked up at the lead physician, “Must be some good stuff you gave him.”

Reid grinned, “A stronger dose of the Lorcet and a muscle relaxer for his back. He should be pretty comfortable for a few hours.”

“Hey, Sam?” Groenendyk called and squeezed his arm.

A frown creased Sam's forehead and bleary eyes opened.

“Sam, you with me?”

Sam swallowed and turned toward the doctor’s voice again. “Yeah.”

“Good. Sam, I just want you to know that I’m going to bind your eyes. And then I’ll leave you alone and let you rest. Okay?”

Sam frowned again, “…bind them?”

“Yep,” the eye doctor said and groaned slightly while straining to reach behind himself to grab a few supplies. “That means I’m going to put some ointment in your eyes and then I’ll have you close them and I’ll wrap them with some gauze, just to make sure they stay shut. Okay?”

“…okay.”  Sam seemed a little slow on the uptake, but after a moment he added, “For how long?”

“Five days.”

“Five _days_ …,” Sam’s eyebrows raised toward his hairline.

“Yes. It will keep the eyes protected. Because, at this point: lights, the sun and wind, even blinking, are going to be irritants. We need your eyes continually protected for five days, so they can heal without any aggravation.”

Dean laid his hand on the back of Sam’s head, “Don’t worry, man. I’ll take you out bar hopping. Chicks _love_ to woo over injured dudes.”

Bobby smacked Dean on the back of the head, “Mind using your upstairs brain for a while? He’s your brother, not puppy; ya idjit.”

Dean ducked past the worst of Bobby’s smack, saying, “Are you kidding? Sammy's gonna be a total chick magnet!”

“Hey,” Sam turned and looked in Dean’s direction, “Does this mean I get to have a dog now?”

"Um, no,” he replied, and gave his brother’s head a gentle, affectionate shove. “Because, you won’t be needing one after a few days.”

Sam smiled softly,” Yeah, let’s hope so.”

Dean huffed out a conflicted smile and tugged Sam’s head in his direction.

Groenendyk, smiled during the exchange, and scooted forward on his stool, “Okay, Sam. Lay your head back. I’ll put the ointment in and then we’ll get you all wrapped up.”

* * *

Bobby sat back against the hard, plastic chair and looked out into the hallway, and then back down at this watch for the fifth time in thirty minutes. That’s how long ago they’d taken Sam down to radiology to get a CT scan. His doctor was fairly certain that if there was a concussion, based on his exam, it would be a mild one. Still, Sam being that close to an explosion, he wanted to have a look anyway, just so they could rule out the possibility of any intracranial bleeding.

At that point in his visit to the Emergency Room, Sam was more out of it than he was in, and even though they’d already told him Dean could go with him, when they had gotten him out into the hallway, Sam’s good hand had thumped against the side rail of the gurney and he called his brother’s name.

Dean had been walking right next to him at that moment and there was no hesitation to grab Sam’s hand give it a quick squeeze. He murmured something about being right there, and something else about not leaving him alone, but Bobby hadn’t caught it all.

He had stood there in the doorway, and watched his boys until they disappeared around a corner. Scratching his head, Bobby looked up and down the hallway a few times, then turned and strolled back into the empty trauma room. A hard, plastic chair next to the door beckoned to him and he answered by easing his weary bones down onto her seat. And, that’s where he had been for the last twenty-seven minutes.

Taking a deep breath and blowing it out, Bobby glanced around the empty trauma room, taking in the state of it. The first thing to grab his attention was the big empty space in the middle of the room where the gurney had been. Assorted trash and discarded linens were strewn about in a halo of debris around the big, empty spot.

 

Bobby stood up again and began to run a hand down his face, but stopped as something caught his eye. He frowned and fixed his gaze on it for a moment. His hand slid away from his mouth and dropped to his side as he walked over to a counter on the far side of the room. He stood there for a beat, and then reached out, his hand trembling the slightest bit, as he picked up the t-shirt Sam had been wearing.

It was a simple, dark blue v-neck; short-sleeve because it had been an unseasonably-warm day in November for South Dakota. Bobby turned it in his hand, and in doing so, the material unfolded and half of it fell away from the bundle, landing in a puddled heap on the toe of his boot. He bent down to pick it up, and the day's events started to tumble through his mind, reverberating with the echoing noise of controlled chaos.

Bobby breathed out another heavy sigh and turned back toward the chair across the room. He sunk down into it with a suppressed groan, and looked down at the shirt clutched his hand. He stared at it like maybe it could tell him what the hell had happened today, and how it had so suddenly gone to shit.

It had started out to be such a good day, too. They boys were in town and were planning on staying a few days. The three of them had been sitting around, shooting the shit, and kicking back a few. They were catching each other up and, in his own way, he'd been listening for markers that might imply that the boys were about to walk into a big pile of cow dung.

Bobby shook his head, scratching the back it through his truckers' hat again. Those two had an innate ability to stumble into trouble easier than a dog could lick his own ass. He had to keep an eye out for them; because, if not him, then who?

Replaying the events leading up to the explosion in his head, Bobby unknowingly sliding the material of Sam's shirt through his fingers while he thought. He attacked the details like they were part of any ordinary case. Disconnected and unemotional, while he studied it all frame by frame.

Sam's comment about Billy popped into his thoughts and he went further back into the recesses of his mind. He brought up cases that he and Billy had joined up on over the last couple of months, and reevaluated his actions. He tried to remember any inclination that he'd noticed any distinct odor on him or in his truck. He dissected the kid's behavior. He was looking for anything that, when compared to the new information of today, might cause an alarm or two go off.

Bobby sat there and chewed on it all for a while.

A whiff of smoke and charred wood filtered through his defenses, and his thoughts took a wild left turn, dragging him along for the ride as they careened out of control. They held him hostage, yanking him back in time, forcing him to watch and relive it all over again. He was back at his place, forcing water into Sam's eyes as the kid writhed on the ground. Dean was shouting at Cooper as he pinned his brother down. The Impala was storming toward them, and everything was engulfed by screams of pain so raw and desperate, no amount of whiskey would ever—

Bobby tore himself from the memory and threw his eyes up at the ceiling. He started counting the tiny holes in a panel of the drop ceiling; he concentrated on voices down the hall; listened as someone's shoes squeaked against the linoleum floor as they walked past the room;  _anything_ that would anchor him in the present.

Grumbling to himself about being a sappy fool, Bobby pushed himself to his feet, and placed both halves of Sam's ruined shirt on the chair. He needed a distraction, something else to look at, something other than the empty room around him, so he left to go stand out in the hallway again. 

Leaning against the doorway, he looked at his watch again, and right about then was when Dean's laughter preceded the foot of a gurney as it rounded the corner. One of the nurses from earlier walked ahead of the boys and gave Bobby a smile as she entered the exam room.

He nodded a smile back and then watched the boys make their way down the hall. Dean was chuckling again, and even the transport guy pushing the gurney was grinning. One look at the dopy smile on Sam’s face told Bobby all he needed to know.

The transport guy backed Sam into the room and Bobby cast a glance over at Dean. The kid was wearing an honest-to-goodness, lighthearted grin. He looked over at Bobby and gave him a devious nod toward his brother.

“Hey, Sammy. Tell Bobby what you said when the nurse gave you some orange juice, down in radiology.”

“It tasted more like oranges, because the oranges were concentrating.”

Dean cracked up all over again, and Bobby raised his eyebrows while following Sam back into the room. He decided to have another go at that chair and sunk down into it. Another snort from the hallway had him looking back over at Dean again, and he shook his head fondly at the idjit.

The kid was almost past the threshold, but then something else caught his attention, and he stopped short. He did a double-take down the hallway. Dean's demeanor did a complete 180, and Bobby watched as the humor on his face was slain by the Winchester death-glare.

Smelling trouble, Bobby got to his feet—again. He could think of only one thing they currently had going on that could get a reaction like that out of the boy. And, that meant trouble.

Dean swiveled his head toward Bobby, their eyes locked, and Bobby gave Dean a slow, don’t-you-dare shake of his head. Dean held his gaze for a moment until a barking laugh from the other end of the hall had him turning back.

“Dean…” His warning was clear, and received, but the kid still tucked his chin and stalked off.

“Balls!” Bobby hissed. He turned, grabbing the hand of one of the nurses, and pointed at Sam, "Stay with him? I'll be right back."

"Bobby?"

The older hunter squeezed Sam's shin through the blankets, "Hang tight kid." Not even waiting for an answer, he was out the door and on the move.

“Dean.” His voice was stern as he snapped the kid's name, but Sam’s big brother ignored it, bumping shoulders with others, and shoving a cart out of his way, as he pressed on toward his target.

“Dean. Stop!” Bobby shouted this time. He was closing in on him, doing a little people-weaving of his own down the congested hallway, and got to his kid just before he could make a big mistake.

Grabbing him by the back of the neck, Bobby wrenched Dean’s arm behind his back and steered him face-first against the wall. Dean bucked against him and Bobby pulled back on his arm, "Calm down!"

A small commotion of startled voices and hushed murmurs broke out around them.

“Who is that guy?"

“Holy fuck! You said they’d be gone!”

"I don't know, but I think he was going after the guy with a broken arm."

“Bobby, let me go!”

“I think he’s the brother of the patient in Trauma 2.”

“Uh oh…”

“Alex, call security.”

“Get off of me!”

The older hunter ignored Dean’s growled demand and hashed one out of his own, “Cooper! Get Billy the hell out of here!”

Dean tried to give him the slip, and Bobby had to pull against the kid’s arm again to keep him pressed against the wall, hoping he wasn't as close to popping the shoulder as he thought he was.

“Nuh-uh,” Bobby grunted when Dean struggled against him. He planted his feet, pressing himself against Dean’s back, and pinned him against the wall. Leaning in, his words tumbled out in a hushed growl as he spoke right next to the kid’s ear, “I get it, son. I really, _really_ do. I want to take a chunk out of the SOB myself—“

Dean wasn’t trying to take it easy on him anymore, and just about broke free. Bobby gave his arm a warming jerk that earned him a pained grunt. “But, this ain’t the time or the place. Your brother’s back down the hall, wonderin’ if he’s ever gonna see again—“

Dean growled again, tensing even more, and Bobby felt the pulse in the wrist he was gripping quicken. He gave it a squeeze, “Now, Sam ain’t saying it, and he ain’t showing it, but you know that boy’s scared as hell right now. He needs you with him. You go after that dumbass, and you’ll be sittin’ down in security instead of with your brother. Where you're needed. Go pummel that jackass some other time; when you’re _off_ the clock.”

“There a problem?”

Bobby glanced at the security guard. “Nope. No problem," he replied and then spoke beside Dean’s ear again, “Right, Dean?”

Bobby could feel the hunter’s ragged breathing against his front. He gave the wrist another squeeze, and Dean huffed out, “No problem.”

The guard leaned in, peering into Dean's eyes, and Bobby saw blind rage fade into a controlled simmer. Dean looked back at the guard, and this time he sounded more composed, “No problem.”

The guard backed off, but placed a hand on the Taser in his belt as he continued to watch Dean.

Bobby released the arm, keeping the back of the kid's neck in a tight grip. Stepping back, he pulled Dean away from the wall, and steered him down the hall, back towards Sam’s room.

**_TBC..._**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely wish I could take credit for the line about the oranges, but, sadly, I found that online somewhere.


	4. Chapter 4

It was just after nine at night and the house was silent. Sam was in the living room, zonked out on the couch. He passed out pretty quickly after getting back to Bobby's, and had stayed that way for the last few hours.

Bobby was out in the yard doing—something, trying to burn off a bit of guilt and nervous energy. Normally, Dean would be doing the same, but tonight was a far stretch from what they considered normal.

Sitting in the dark kitchen with a beer and some research, Dean continued to use the glow from Sam’s laptop to see the notes he’d been writing.  Dropping the pen, he sat back and began to scroll through one of the many webpages he had visited in the last couple of hours. 

Sam was the research nerd in their partnership. But, that wouldn't be happening for a little while, at the very least. Something in Dean flared at that thought, and before his mind could carry him away on the what-if train, he shook it off, and took a long pull from his beer.

Hitting the back arrow, Dean went back to his search results. Usually, he hated research. _Hated_ it. Sam knew that. He also knew that Dean was a big-ass baby about it. So, shortly after they had partnered up a few years back, Sam had just, sort of, conveniently slipped into that role. The arrangement had worked well for them. Dean hated research; Sam liked it. Win, win.

And, man, wouldn’t he pay cash money to be sitting there, researching some of the crap he’s bitched and whined about in the past. Give him folklore, give him deities, angels and demons, witches, property deeds, or death records.

Give him _anything_ that would put the normal back into their lives, and he'd sit there and research himself to the bone. Hell, he’d take over on _all_ the damned research for the rest of their days. As long as it meant that he could exchange all the notes he was taking right then, for their normal stuff.

But, until something happened to erase the day, and granted them a do-over, Dean was going to sit there, and drink his beer, and keep looking up everything he could find on how to help someone who had lost their vision.

And, man, his first few tries had yielded some wildly unexpected results.

His first search parameters had been: _how to help a loved one who’s been blinded,_ and his results had given websites like: Is Love Blind? [www.psychologytoday.com](http://www.psychologytoday.com/); 10 Things You Blindly Ignore When You’re Blinded by Love [www.newlovetimes.com](http://www.newlovetimes.com/); and 8 Painful Signs That Could Mean You’re in a One-Sided Relationship [www.elitedaily.com](http://www.elitedaily.com/).

Changing up a couple of words in the search box had brought up: “Blinded By the Light” Tops Spotify List of Most Misquoted Song Lyrics [www.newsfeed.time.com](http://www.newsfeed.time.com/); Third Eye Blind Lyrics – Blinded (When I See You) [www.azlyrics.com](http://www.azlyrics.com/) and Blind (2017) –IMDb [www.imdb.com](http://www.imdb.com/)

 _The hell’s with all the song and movie bullshit?_ He had scowled at the computer screen like it was being an ass on purpose, and then he remembered another reason Sam always did the research.

He sucked at it.

Determined, and stubborn, he wouldn’t allow a search engine to best him. He cracked open another beer, took a swig, and then tried again.

That time he had gotten:  2-inch Faux Wood blinds (made-to-measure) [www.blindsonline.com](http://www.blindsonline.com/); blind – definition of blind in English/Oxford Dictionaries en.oxforddictionaries.com; and National Federation of the Blind [www.nfb.org](http://www.nfb.org/).

 _Closer,_ Dean had nodded to himself, and stared through the computer screen, drumming his fingers on the table, as he thought for a minute.

He tried again, and that time he'd hit pay dirt: Do you have a friend or loved one who is blind? [www.theitem.com](http://www.theitem.com/); When Someone You Know “Goes Blind” – Wise Advice [www.wiseadvise.wordpress.com](http://www.wiseadvise.wordpress.com/); Helping a Loved One Cope – National Eye Institute [www.nei.nih.gov](http://www.nei.nih.gov/)

He was getting a little ahead of himself, Dean knew this. But, at the same time, he really wasn’t.

It was true, they had no definite answer on whether Sam’s vision would suffer permanent damage. And, even the fucktard that caused this whole thing would be able to see that Dean was hoping and praying—actually fucking _praying—_ that Sam’s eyes would heal completely.

If that happened, then hell, he would light up all his notes and burn that shit into ash. 

However: 70/30.

Those were the odds the Ophthalmologist had given him after Dean found a moment to pull him aside. Sam had a seventy percent chance of coming out of this unscathed, but that also left him with a thirty percent chance at permanent damage.

Thirty people out of every one hundred. That was just two damn many. Too damn close to call. Too damn high of a percentage for him to sit on his ass and play the wait-and-see game.

No. If there was even the slimmest chance that Sam could be dealing with a dramatic, life-changing event—like losing his damn sight—Dean was going to be prepared. He was going to have a solid plan in place, know their options, and know what their next move would be. Dean was going to know his shit, so that if the worst did happen, he would be calm, and confident, and strong, even if his brother might not be.

If this was their new reality, then they were going to figure it out, and together they'd decide how to move forward from there. Whether it meant retiring from the hunter lifestyle, or finding a way to adapt, it didn’t matter. Whatever they were faced with, and whatever they decided to do about it, Dean had no doubt that they would kick it in the ass.

So, for the last two hours, other than to take a piss, check on his brother, or grab another beer from the fridge, Dean hadn’t budged from his spot at the kitchen table. He sat, and read, and wrote, and used up the better part of a yellow legal pad on taking notes.

There was a buzz as his phone lit up next to him and vibrated against the table. It was a text from Bobby saying he was going to take a run out and get some things, and did they need anything.

Dean wasn’t sure what supplies the guy needed at nine-something at night, but figured he still needed something to do. Evidently, hanging around in the shop, thinking and stewing over today’s wreckage of events wasn’t cutting it anymore.

Dean thought for a moment, trying to come up with something. Then, he shrugged: _Car could use some wiper fluid_

He knew it was lame, and he knew Bobby knew it was lame. Especially, considering there were gallons upon gallons of wiper fluid squirreled away in Bobby’s shop. But, they both knew the reason they were talking about errands and wiper fluid. And, it had nothing to do with auto maintenance.

His phone lit up again:  _Ok. Back in a few_

Dean smirked at his phone and then set it off to the side again.

“Dean!”

He jolted as Sam’s voice shattered the hours of silence he’d been surrounded with. The shock of it stabbed him in the heart, while simultaneously sucking all the air out of the room. He could _feel_ the frantic quality in his brother’s voice. Then, he was on his feet, gripping the edge of the table and heaving himself forward as his chair clattered to the floor.

“DEAN!”

“Right here, Sam!” He called out from the kitchen and ran the short distance to the living room.

Sam was still laying on the couch, but he was working his beaten and bruised body forward, trying to get an elbow under himself, _"DEAN!”_

Sam shouted his name and Dean couldn't remember the last time he sounded so vulnerable and just plain scared.

“I’m here, Sam.” Dean said, taking him by the arms, “I’m right here, man.” He dropped to a knee and touched the side of his brother's face.

“Dean…”

Sam said his name again, and Dean could tell he still wasn’t free from the dose of mega pain relievers he’d gotten at the hospital.

“Right, here, Sammy,” he said, and squeezed the back of his neck. “What’s wrong?”

Sam’s brow was creased with apprehension. His hand found Dean's shoulder and he clamped down on it. He said, “It’s… dark, Dean. Everything is dark; _I can’t see._ ”

“Oh, Sammy, no. No, no, no. It’s not what you think.”

Sam shook his head as Dean coaxed him back against his pillow, “Dean, I can’t _see.”_

“Sam, no. It’s the bandages. Your eyes are bandaged. That’s why it’s dark. That’s all.”

“But; no, Dean...”

He cupped the side of Sam’s jaw and spoke with a gentle tone, “Sammy, listen to me. You’ve had some pretty kick-ass pain medicine. I think it’s kind of messing with you. Here,” he said, taking his brother’s hand and touched it to the length of gauze. “Careful. Don’t touch your eyes.”

Sam ran his fingertips along the gauze at his temple and followed it around to the back of his head.

“Sam, do you remember what happened; you remember going to the hospital?”

Sam scowled for a second, and then Dean could tell the pieces were beginning to come together.

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember the eye doctor telling you he was going to bind your eyes for a week?”

Sam frowned at that, “I’m not sure.”

Dean shrugged, “Yeah, well, that was after they doped you up pretty good and you were mostly out of it by then. But, hey, you _were_ pretty amusing.”

“Shut up," Sam grumbled with a wince as he began to push himself upright. He started to swing his feet down to the floor and stopped, dropping his head with a grunt.

Dean grabbed him by the shoulders. "Easy, man," he said, helping him to sit up and settled him back against the couch. "You're gonna want to move real slow for a few days."

Sam leaned his head back, took a deep breath, and exhaled a long sigh. Flexing his right hand around the gauze, he used the other to feel how far the bandages went up his arm. He sighed again, settled his bad hand into his lap and said, "Alright. Damage report."

Dean sat down on the couch with a weary groan and rubbed a hand down his mouth. "Do you remember much from being at the hospital?"

Sam rolled his head against the back of the couch toward Dean, "Kinda. It's like hazy, jumbled up bits and pieces." Then, he grinned, "I remember you almost tearing into some guy when we first got there."

Dean huffed, "Dude was a whiney-ass douche. I should have laid him out. Simply on principle."

Sam's grin widened, "Yeah; _that_ would have been great. Then, you could have been arrested for assault and Bobby probably would have let you rot in jail for the night. Simply on principle."

"And deal with your high-maintenance ass alone? Not likely." Dean replied, watching Sam feel along the gauze pads taped to his collarbone. "So, yeah; Damage Report. You've got second degree burns to your hand and arm, and also to those areas near your collarbone. Doc thinks that might be from the collar of your shirt igniting."

Sam made a face as he thought about that and, Dean continued, "First degree on your face, neck, chest, and upper right arm. Pretty much like a wicked sunburn. You’re about as red as a cooked lobster; especially on your right side."

Sam turned toward him again, "Worse than the epic sunburn from the summer of '96?"

Dean chuckled at that, "Yeah, Sammy." He smiled, and then was quick to add, "But, not by much."

"Whatever, man. You just want to own the story on first-degree burns, so you can keep retelling it like you walked on the sun and lived."

"Hey!" Dean pointed at his brother, and the fact that it was a useless gesture right then was not lost on him. "That was awful. I had blisters the size of donuts and I couldn't do much more than _breathe_ for a week. And, even that hurt like a bitch."

Sam laughed, "Dad told you to use sunscreen."

"It was September, Sam. I'd been working out in Bobby's yard, shirtless, all summer and was already rocking a nice tan. We were on that beach for two hours. Two hours, Sam. Hell, I spent entire _days_ in the sun, in July, and never even came _close_ to getting a burn like that."

"Yeah, but we'd also never been to the Florida Keys before. Closer to the equator, sun's a lot more intense."

"Yeah, well, would have been nice if you would have told me that back then."

"I was thir _teen_ , Dean."

"So? I'm sure that super-brain of yours had that little tidbit of information already filed away somewhere."

Sam sighed, and Dean could practically _see_ him rolling his eyes beneath the bandages. Then, his heart twisted a little when he thought, maybe not; considering how much that would probably hurt right now.

"Okay, Dean," Sam continued, "you can be the survivor of an epic sunburn, and I'll be the survivor of a gasoline explosion." Sam smiled, "I'm sure your story will win out over mine on Ladies' Night." 

"You're heartless, Sammy. You know that?" Dean griped, but smiled when his brother laughed.

They were quiet for a moment and then Sam gestured toward his face, "So, it’s for a week?”

“Yeah. Well, five days; well, four, considering today counts as day one.”

"I remember the doc saying something about leaving it on the whole time. So, what..., can't even wash my hair for five days?"

Dean smiled, "No, you can wash your hair. Need to take it off once a day anyway for fresh bandages and to squeeze some goop in your eyes."

"Good," Sam said, rubbing at the burn on his forehead, "because I smell like a campfire. I need a shower."

Dean pushed Sam's hand away, "Yeah, we'll get it figured out." He gave his brother a once-over. "How are you feeling?"

"Um, kinda stoned."

Dean snorted, "Have you ever _been_ stoned?"

"Last time I was on pain meds."

"Okay, besides being stoned, how are you feeling? Any pain?"

Sam made his thinking face and Dean waited until he finished his internal assessment.

"Not, _really_..., kind of ache all over. My back's not very happy right now, but it's manageable. My ear feels funny. Hey—" He faced Dean, "Did the doctor say something about my eardrum being ruptured?"

Dean nodded, "Yeah. It'll take a couple of months to heal completely. Until then, could have some hearing loss, and it might ache at first. But, the pain medicine you're on should take care of that. Um, you need to keep it dry, so Vaseline and a cotton ball during showers, and you need to keep it protected from the cold."

"Super."

"Yeah, well, just so we’re clear, you're getting pain meds and a muscle relaxer regularly for  the next twenty-four hours. Minimum. The end."

Sam smirked, "Don't think I'll be fighting you on it this time."

That right there told Dean exactly how bad the pain was before Sam had gotten nice and drugged up. Considering he would rather feel hazy and out of it for the next day or two, instead of pushing through it like they usually did? Yeah. It had been pretty damn bad.

Dean rubbed the stubble on his chin as he thought, and then he asked, "How are your eyes? They hurting any?"

Sam rocked his head against the back of the couch, "Not right now." He was quiet, then asked, "Did the doctor say they would?"

Big brother radar picked up on the uneasiness within the question, and Dean put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "They might over the next day or two, but don't worry. He sent us home with some of his magic eye drops, just in case they do."

Sam lifted his head from the back of the couch and clocked, listening for something.  His brow drew together and he turned his head the other way for a couple of seconds, then back toward Dean, "Hey. Where's Bobby?"

 _Ah; that._ "Out running errands, or something."

"Running errands? What time is it? What _day_ is it?"

"It's still Sunday, and it's 9:43."

Sam tilted his head at him and Dean knew he was getting Sam's dubious look, "He's out running errands at 9:43 at night? What's open at 9:43 at night, in a little hamlet off the suburbs of Sioux Falls; on a Sunday?"

Dean hated it when Sam analyzed him. It always made him feel like he was a corrupt banker getting roasted on the stand, and he snipped, "I don't know, man! He's out getting wiper fluid or something."

"Wiper fluid...? Isn't there like 20 gallons of wiper fluid in the shop?"

"I don't know; probably. What's it matter? So, Bobby went out for wiper fluid. So, what? Maybe the guy likes to have no less than 21 gallons on hand at a time. Who knows? It's Bobby, dude."

Sam was facing him dead on and Dean could feel hazel eyes scrutinizing him through the bandages. They sat like that, in silence for a beat. And, then Sam laid his head back against the back of the couch again. The sigh that came after told Dean that he'd figured out why Bobby needed wiper fluid at 9:43 at night, on a Sunday.

Sam sighed again, "He's blaming himself for this; isn't he."

It wasn't a question. Dean turned and looked out the window behind them for a moment, "You know how he thinks, Sam."

His brother snorted, "Yeah, and I don't think we'll be able to change his mind about it."

Dean picked at a loose thread on the couch, "Bobby's Bobby, man." He shrugged and looked back at his brother, "Stubborn to the core with a knack for self-loathing. There's no way we'd be able to get through to him that it wasn’t his fault. Cuz, all he can think about is, if he would have just done it himself, it never would have happened in the first place."

Sam exhaled hard, "Shit." Then he said, "You know, that stubborn, self-loathing trait; it runs in the family."

Dean smirked and nodded, "Yeah." Then he smacked a safe spot on Sam's chest with the back of his hand, "Don't think about it too much, Sammy. You know Bobby. He'll stew over it for a while and then properly repress it with all the other crap he shouldn’t feel guilty over, but still does. Just like we do."

Then, it was Sam's turn to smirk.

Dean smiled to himself and looked his brother over again. His eyes dropped to the damaged hand and he had the thought that they really should have it elevated. He leaned in some,  as he inspected it, looking for signs of swelling. Might be some, which was expected, but not bad enough to need the bandages loosened.

Dean looked up, wondering if Sam had dozed off again. He was quiet, still, and his breathing was relaxed and even. The bandages around his eyes practically glowed white against his red skin. The cuts and scrapes were all minor; red and mostly on the right side of his face.

He considered his brother on an exhale, and thought he should probably check his temp; make sure it was still hovering near normal.

“Quit staring at me.”

Dean scoffed, “Dude, you have no idea where I’m looking.”

Sam rolled his head against the back of the couch, and toward him. He smirked, “Quit staring at me.”

Dean rolled his eyes, "Okay. Whatever."

"So? Tell me."

Dean looked back at his brother and scowled, "Tell you what?"

"What's my prognosis look like?"

"Uh," Dean scratched the back of his head as he thought of how he wanted to proceed.  "Do you remember what the Doc was saying right before he wrapped up your eyes?"

"That he was optimistic, but we wouldn't know anything for sure until I go back on Thursday."

"Right. So, there you are. You know what I know."

Sam tilted his head toward him a little more, giving him another sly smirk, "But, I know you, Dean. I _know_ you wouldn't just let it go at that. There's more."

They sat in a heavy silence, holding a brief stare down, and then Dean caved, “Yeah, you’re right.”

Sam's grinned.

“But, remember this is a static for _any_ possible permanent damage. He couldn’t break it down between the worst-case scenario, and just needing glasses, or being overly sensitive to light. Low vision, or seeing halos around lights, or, everything having a general cloudiness, or—”

_“Dean.”_

“70/30," he blurted out. "All right? You’ve got about a seventy percent chance at a full recovery.”

Sam was quiet, and then frowned, “Right. Which leaves, a thirty percent chance of permanent damage.”

Dean sighed and rubbed his forehead, “Yeah, Sam. But, you have to consider, it’s not just down to seventy percent on recovery or thirty percent for low vision or blindness. It's not black and white like that. That thirty percent also lumps in all the minor—but totally manageable outcomes, also. So, way I figure, that really drives down the chance of a life-altering loss of vision. Drives it way down, man.”

Sam was quiet again, and Dean waited for him to respond. After a moment, he squeezed his brother’s shoulder, “Sammy, try not to think about this too much.”

Taking a deep breath, Sam’s features relaxed, and he gave Dean a quick smirk, “Yeah—no; you’re right.” He paused and cleared his throat, “It's pretty good odds. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Dean knew Sam wasn't as okay with the situation as he made it seem, but didn't call him on it. But, it did make him wonder, after all those years, why they still bothered to try and hide things from each other. And, why they still played the game of pretending not to know what the other was thinking. Then, he figured it had nothing to do with deception, and everything to do with privacy.

They’ve been smashed together for pretty much their whole lives. Whether it was sharing a bedroom, a package of dental floss, or Baby's front seat, it forced you to get pretty up close and personal with a guy. With their lives, with what they did, it was fairly unavoidable.

And, in those conditions, a guy will hold on to any shred of privacy he could get. Even if that meant a dose of self-denial, just to have something that’s his, and that he could keep to himself.

_TBC…_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Sorry for such a long delay in between updates. I had a bit of surgery that had set me back for a while, and then I had a lot of catch up to do in RL that stole all of my time for writing. Things are finally almost back to normal and I’m excited to be able to be writing again. Thank you, everyone, for being patient and kind during my hiatus. You guys are the best!_

* * *

 

It was somewhere around 11:30 at night when the growl of Bobby's old truck could be heard entering the salvage yard. Rows of stacked junkers threw the engine's rough knocking sound around as it rolled past, making its way down the long drive.

Easing his foot off the gas pedal, Bobby leaned forward over the steering wheel. The wipers squeak and whine against the windshield as he peered through the rain-speckled glass at one of the lights in his lot.

His face soured at the burnt-out bulb, grousing over how that light had eaten up three bulbs in the last month. No doubt now that he was looking at a rewiring job. 

Pulling to a stop beside the shop, he threw the tranny into park, and cut the engine. At first, he just sat there, listening to the soft patter of rain as it came down across the roof of the cab. But then, he yanked the key from the ignition, reached across the seat to grab the bottle of wiper fluid, and shoved his door open.

Bobby dropped off the container of green fluid in the shop—green because, apparently, Dean’s car only took the kind with bug gut remover and water-repelling technology—and then he made his way toward the house.

About twenty paces later, he was eyeing the shiny, black car as he walked past her. He scowled as he thought that almost twelve hours ago, he'd been driving her like a bat straight out of hell. Mud splattered along the driver door and rear quarter panel brought back images of plowing through the rough, county roads, gripping the steering wheel, and driving as fast as he dared.

It had been a tight line; trying to find the sweet spot between fast enough and not too rough for the injured kid in the back. Yeah, he could have taken the highways, and it would have been a much smoother route; a more comfortable ride for Sam. But, it would have added an extra seven minutes, and that was seven minutes that they couldn't have spared.

As he walked past, Bobby touched a couple of fingers to her and trailed them down the length of her hood, giving her a kind-of silent thanks for pulling through for the boys again.

Inside, the house was dark and quiet, and Bobby hoped that meant both of the boys were asleep. Not only Sam, with Dean doing one of his silent vigils.

He eased the door shut and removed his coat, shaking off the cold and dampness from outside. While it had been an unseasonably warm day for the middle of November, a cold front had moved through the area while they were in the hospital, bringing with it a miserable, cold rain to match his miserable, no-good mood.

Bobby stepped into the living room and then leaned against the entryway as he looked in for a moment. Dean had built a fire, and judging from the pile of glowing coals, it had been no less than a couple of hours ago. The light of it bathed the room in a warm, orange glow that cast dancing shadows over the boys, who were _both_ asleep.

Bobby shot his eyes upward, toward whatever or whoever, grateful for small mercies, and then moved silently into the room.

Sam was curled up on the couch, and he seemed to be down for the count. The doctor back in the ER had tried to get him to stay the night so they could monitor him, as a precaution. Having second-degree burns, they also wanted to make sure he didn’t start showing any signs of infection.

But, Sam had turned him down flat, saying they wouldn’t be doing anything for him there, that Dean and Bobby couldn’t handle back home.

Neither Bobby nor Dean had tried very hard to talk him into it, either. The kid was right. They could more than handle it.

Plus, they all knew how much it sucked to spend the night in the hospital. It’s not like you actually got any rest. Someone was always coming in to take your vitals, draw blood for lab work, or administer medications. It was somehow always fifteen minutes before your IV bag ran out and you'd have to call them back in to turn off the blasted alarm on the pump. It always seemed like those things could only be done between the hours of 11:00pm and 7:00am, and always with the light flipped on.

Heaven forbid, they actually synchronized some of those tasks for the same time. Hit three birds with one stone.

But, nah; because that would make too much sense.

Looking down at the lump on the floor next to the couch, Bobby took in the pallet Dean had made for himself out of a few of the extra blankets. He, too seemed to be sleeping soundly, and Bobby figured that meant the boys’ evening had been fairly uneventful. He knew if there had been any complications, or problems, he would have found Dean awake and wired on old coffee and bad whiskey.

Bobby reached down and tugged Dean’s blanket up to his shoulders. Then he grabbed the instant-read thermometer off his desk, and went to check on Sam.

On their way home, Dean had insisted that they stop and pick one up. Even after Bobby had assured him that he had a perfectly good thermometer at home. But, Dean had shot down his trusty, mercury-filled, glass thermometer, saying it wasn't worth the hassle. And, then promptly turned into a CVS.

Bobby had griped at how pansy their generation was as the kid had pulled into a parking spot, and cut the engine. Dean just rolled his eyes at him as he got out. He'd cast a quick at glance at his sleeping brother in the back, and then jogged up to the store entrance. Six minutes, and thirty-something bucks later, a white bag was tossed on the seat between them as Dean slid back behind the wheel.

And, as it turned out, Bobby had to admit that it _was_ a handy little tool.

They had monitored Sam's temp every fifteen minutes for the first hour, then every thirty for the second, and then once an hour from then on.

The kid had been running a little low when they'd first gotten back, so Dean had slipped his Jayhawks beanie over his brother’s head, while Bobby dug out _all_ of his extra blankets—and, living in South Dakota, saying he had a lot was about the understatement of the year.

Now, thermometer in hand as he stood in front of the couch, Bobby thought for a moment, trying to remember the sequence of steps.

Was it: push the button and then put it to Sam's forehead and swipe, or, put it against his forehead and then press the button, and swipe?

He didn't want to have to do it more than once and risk disturbing the kid if he got it wrong.  So, he tried it out on himself first, frowned at error code on the readout, and then tried it again.

Definitely: forehead, and then button and swipe.

Bobby leaned over Sam and moved the thermometer across his skin as gently as he could, holding his breath the entire time, and hoping it wouldn't wake him.

It didn't, and the readout said: 98.2. Still a little low, but better than it had been when they'd first gotten back, and a whole lot better than it was in the hospital.

Noticing the beanie was MIA, he went to the pile of blankets and reached for an afghan that his grandmother had knitted back when his mom was a kid. He pulled it from the pile, shook it out, and draped it over the boy.

Satisfied that his tending duties had been fulfilled, Bobby walked over to his desk, poured himself a drink, and eased himself down into the chair. He’d already decided to hold Dean’s abandoned vigil until he woke up. If the kid somehow managed to sleep through until morning, then Bobby would stay right where he was to hold down the fort.

Sitting in the flickering glow of the fireplace, Bobby leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the corner of his desk. Sipping his whiskey, he looked over the two hunters camped out in his living room, and thought back to a similar scene spun from puppies and little boys. 

Best he could remember, Dean had been eight, and Sam four, and the memory picked up with the three of them standing outside in the night…

_Bobby stood next to the boys and waited as they continued to wave their goodbyes at the receding red glow of the Impala's tail lights. The three of them watched as the car turned onto the road. Her horn gave them a couple of clipped toots right before she opened up with a growl and vanished from view with the sound of her engine chasing after._

_A pint-sized snivel shifted his attention from the empty road, down to the little man standing beside him, and Bobby sighed. Dropping down into a crouch, he took the kid by the shoulders. He looked over his head to the brother standing behind, and then looked back, saying "Hey, Sammy?"_

_But, the boy's watery gaze had remained fixed on the empty drive where he'd just watched his father leave him behind. The biting January wind pushed against Bobby's back as he wiped hot tears from the boy's face, and he tried again, "We can stay out here if you want to, son; but, I've got a few bags of puppy chow I need to haul into the shed. Little guys are waitin' on me, and..."_

_That had drawn both the boys' attention, and Bobby had to whip out his poker face when Dean's eyebrows shot straight toward his hairline, right before he asked, "You have puppies?"_

_"Yup. A whole litter of 'em."_

_Sam's teary eyes went wide, but it was Dean who spoke again, "But..." He stopped, plastering Bobby with a quizzical look, and then said, "But, Digger is a boy."_

_The corner of the hunter's eyes crinkled as he chuckled at the innocent remark. Nodding, he said, "Yes. That is correct. Digger is a boy. But, I had a mama wander onto the property few weeks back. Way I figure, she knew the time for her to have those pups was real close, and she needed a place out of the cold and wind. She found a way into my shed and before I know it, I'm ankle-deep in the little fur balls."_

_Bobby grinned, and then looked back down to Sam, "What do ya think, Sammy? Feel up to helping me check in on the little buggers?"_

_Still choosing to remain silent, a smile crept onto the boy's face as his eyes shot up toward his big brother. Dean smiled back, ruffling the boy's hair, and nodded. Sam whipped back around, nodding enthusiastically at Bobby._

_All business, now, Bobby gave the boy a somber nod, "Well's let's get to it, then."_

_He got to his feet and started off toward the shed he’d parked his truck by. After a few steps, the natural swing of his arm had halted when the cold fingers of a little hand had slipped into his. Looking down, he saw Sam smiling up at him, and Bobby's heart swelled. A warmth blossomed from deep within that even the bitter, gusting wind couldn't pass through._

_Closing his calloused hand around the little one in his, he smiled back down at the little tyke._

_As they neared the shed, the yapping-yip of puppy chatter could be heard and Bobby had to up the pace as Sam took off, tugging him forward with earnest._

A log popped in the fireplace beside him, and Bobby sucked in a deep breath as he came back to the present. He looked down at his glass, scowling at it when it came back empty, and then he considered the bottle sitting on his desk within arm’s reach. It’s the one he’d opened just that afternoon. Already a third low, Bobby had a feeling it wouldn’t have to worry about sitting around, collecting dust.

Pouring himself another double, he took a swig, wincing as it singed its way down and tried to burn a hole in his gut. He took another drink while eyeing the boys one more time, and then pulled up to a book to do research on nothing in particular.

A couple of hours later, he was still at it when he heard Sam shift, and then a minute later, shift again. Bobby raised his eyes from the book he'd been paging through, and watched the figure on the couch.

The kid was still for a good while, and Bobby was just about to get back to his book when he shifted again. That time, a soft moan followed, and Bobby hoped it was just a dream— _please just let it be a dream_.

But, then Sam moaned again; that time a little louder. It was followed by a sharp gasp and a choked whimper, and that had Bobby on his feet, and rounding the side of his desk.

It was only about five steps between the desk and the couch, but he had to cut it down to two when Sam brought his hands up and pressed them to his bandaged eyes. Bobby got to him as he was starting to turn toward the back of the couch, and grabbed him by the elbows.

"Sam. Hey, hey," he said, and took a knee next to the couch, gently rolling him back while pulling his hands away from his face. Sam didn’t put up much of a fight, but he pushed his head back into the pillow and groaned through clenched teeth.

And, it had Bobby wondering if the kid had somehow managed to drug his brother to knock him out, because there was just no way that Dean could be sleeping through it all.

That boy was always on high-alert when it came to his little brother. Introduce an _injured_ little brother to the mix, and the kid was practically clairvoyant.

"Dean," Bobby called.

Tugging Sam's fists down again, the kid sucked in a hiss and exhaled a few panting breaths as his hands hovered near his eyes.

Bobby let him get only so close, before pulling them back down again. He held them with one hand while he placed the other to the kid’s forehead. "I know, Sam. Just hold on for a second—Dean, _damn it,_ wake up," Bobby growled.

Sam swallowed and tossed his head against the pillow. He released a strained groan, and Bobby sat back on his heel and jammed the toe of his boot into the hunter’s side, _"Dean!_ "

There was a sharp gasp as eyes slammed open, and then Dean jackknifed forward. He sat there with a glazed, disoriented look about him, and Bobby gave him a second to figure out where he was—occupational hazard, and all.

One short mewl from his brother was all it took for Dean's brain to flip the "on" switch, and then he was scrambling to his feet and hovering over them. Frowning at his brother, he grabbed his shoulder, "Sam?”

"It's his eyes." Bobby said, feeling like he was stating the obvious. But, one look at the dazed kid’s face told him Dean’s lights might have been on, but he was processing the situation slower than the computer he had back around 1985.

Dean was reaching around him, grabbing at the blankets Sam was trying to kick off. He yanked them to the floor, and Bobby gave him a glance, "Go get those numbing drops, while I keep his hands away from his face."

Dean gave his brother's shoulder a quick squeeze that meant so much more than what it seemed, and took off for the kitchen.

Now, you can call it a coincidence, or strange timing, or whatever you want, but as soon as Dean was out of the room, Sam's pain ratcheted up about two levels.

"Easy, Boy," Bobby soothed when Sam growled with pained frustration as he intercepted, and brought his hands back down again.

“Damn it, Bobby— it’s worse than earlier.”

Bobby plucked a napkin from the end table and started to mop the young hunter's brow, “Yeah, well, that’s because the doc had to do a little mining after some of the debris. Plus, he said the first couple days your eyes would have muscle spasms and the nerves would probably go a little haywire; my guess is you’ve got a double whammy going on right now.”

Sam’s response to that was to drive his hands in his hair and roll on his side, stifling another groan.

Bobby knew he was trying to internalize the pain as much as he could, but it needed an outlet somewhere, and that would be why he couldn't stay still. Kid was squirming around more than a night crawler just plucked from the ground.

Rolling onto his back again, Sam reached behind his head and used his good hand to grip the arm of the couch. He turned his face against the inside of his arm, and this time he gave into the pain, and cried out.

Bobby's heart ached for the poor kid, and he was just about to yell at Dean to hurry the hell up, when there was a shout from the kitchen.

"Sammy, hang on; I'm coming!"

Bobby looked over his shoulder just in time to see Dean emerge from the shadows of the dark kitchen, rushing back at them.

"I'm here, Sam," Dean said, palming the side of his brother's face as he slipped into the spot Bobby had vacated for him.

“What the hell took so long?”

Dean leveled a look up at Bobby, “Couldn’t get the damn safety seal off; was freaking glued on or something.” Setting the bottle down, he felt along the side of Sam’s head, searching for the taped end of the gauze bandage.

Still holding the arm of the couch in a death-grip, Sam reached out with his bandaged hand. It padded across Dean’s chest a couple of times, found his bicep, and clamped down. Drawing his knees up, he pressed back into the pillow again, and groaned.

_“Dean.”_

"Just a couple more seconds, man. Count to twenty and we'll be done. I Promise." He looked up at Bobby, "Mind pulling the drapes?" Dean asked giving a nod toward the window behind the couch that glowed from an outdoor security light.

Bobby remembered what the eye doctor had said about only exposing Sam's eyes to a dark room, and hopped to it while Dean spoke softly to his brother as he started to unwrap the bandages from his eyes.

Bobby yanked the drapes shut, then stood there, looking around the room. "Think the firelight's too much? Think I should block it some?"

Dean was just about to remove the last of the gauze, and looked up at the fire. "Yeah, maybe," he answered and then brought his attention back to Sam. He was saying something about helping him to scoot down a little, so he could lay flat, and Bobby dragged over a short bookshelf, using it to block most of the firelight.

"That good? Still got enough to see by?"

"Yeah; it's good," Dean answered without looking up and Bobby walked back and stood over the boys.

“Okay, Sammy,” Dean started, with a hand on his brother's forehead, “You open your eyes as much as you can, and I’ll do the rest."

_"Whoa there, chief!" Bobby said as he dashed forward and wrapped an arm around Sam's chest. Hauling him off the floor of the shed, the boy's eager little legs were still in motion as he pulled him against himself and settled him over his hip, "Can't have you rushing in on that mama and her pups."_

_Dean walked up next to Bobby and scrambled onto one of the straw bales he had used to section off a portion of his shed. Standing on the pile of straw brought Dean up to shoulder-level, and he looked at Bobby as he asked, "Is she mean?"_

_Bobby considered the question as he watched the bitch clean one of her pups, "Seems docile enough," he said looking back at Dean. "But, she's pretty used to me, seeing as I've been in here couple times a day for the last four weeks."_

_Bobby hitched Sam up higher on his side, and the boy hooked an arm around his neck. Bobby looked closely into hazel eyes, making certain he had the boy's attention, "But, she don't know you or your brother. And, I don't know her enough to be able to really gauge her temperament.  New mamas can be fiercely protective and they can be mighty unpredictable."_

_Looking back at Dean he said, "I don't want you boys in this shed without me, ya hear?"_

_Dean nodded solemnly, and Bobby looked back at the tyke in his arms, "You want to come in and see the pups, or you want to play with 'em, you get me and I'll handle 'em for you." Bobby paused, and gave Sam his I-mean-business look, "You hearin' me, son?"_

_Sam nodded._

_"You boys stay out of this shed, without me. We clear?"_

_The arm around his neck shifted as little digits played with the collar of his coat, "Okay, Uncle Bobby."_

_His eyes held the boy's attention for a beat, and then he smirked. Letting him slide down his side and back down to the floor, Bobby crouched down and tucked Sam against his side. Dean dropped down next to him on his other side, and the three of them watched the tumbling pile of puppies._

_"What kind of dogs are they?" Dean asked from where he sat on top of the straw bale._

_Bobby shook his head, "Kind of hard to say when they're this small. The mama looks to be a Sheppard mix."_

_"How old are they?"_

_Looking to his other side, Bobby answered, "Just over four weeks."_

_"Can I h-hold one?"_

_Sam shivered against his side, and Bobby noticed how quickly the temperature was dropping. Both boys were wearing coats, and Bobby was sure they would probably be considered "winter" coats in most stores. But, they were hardly rated for the single-digit temperatures of a January night in South Dakota._

_Pulling the boy still considered a toddler closer against his side, Bobby wrapped his other arm around his older brother. He needed to get the boys inside, but he_ knew _there was just no way he'd be able to get them to agree to waiting until morning before playing with the pups._

_Dean, he could probably coerce without much grief. He wouldn't be happy about it, but the boy followed orders without question. John made sure of that._

_Sam, on the other hand, while he was just as good a boy as his brother, he was only four years old, and Bobby knew trying to get the boy to wait until morning would be a losing battle right from the start._

_So, not seeing another way around it—and against his better judgement—Bobby told them each to pick out a pup they'd like to bring inside._

_Dean had taken a moment to consider his options, but Sam had thrust a finger out, saying, "That one! The black and white one with the little dots on his nose!"_

_Bobby smiled, and then looked to his left, "Dean?"_

_The boy nodded toward the group, "The brown and black one over there by himself."_

_The next hour and a half had been a hectic one. Between Dean's declarations every time a new puddle appeared, Sam chasing after his pup and getting tangled up in the rungs under of one of the kitchen chairs, and the tall stack of old newspapers that apparently no one touched, but had decided to come tumbling down all on their own, Bobby had gotten a good idea of how that headless chicken felt as it ran around the barnyard._

_But, after blocking off all exits to the living room, and corralling both kids and puppies into one, confined area, things started to settle down. Bobby had taken some of those kamikaze newspapers and spread them out off in the corner in a thick layer. A bowl of water was set on the far corner of the papers, out-of-the-way of being knocked over (again), and after being tag-teamed by both boys to let the pup stay in for the night, sleeping bags had been laid out on the floor near the fireplace._

_A cup of fresh coffee in his hand, Bobby had sat down behind his desk with a worn-out groan. Kicking off his boots, he slid down in the seat as he propped his feet up on the corner. He had sat there for a while, sipping from his cup, and appreciating both the quiet and the scene before him. Sam and Dean zonked out on top of Dean's sleeping bag; their furry new friends passed out right beside them._

_Shaking his head to himself, Bobby figured at some point he'd cover them with Sam's sleeping bag. Then, he looked over at the couch, already resigned that it would be his bed for the night, and thought about going up to grab his pillow and blanket. And, he really should throw another log onto the fire pretty soon._

_But, for right then, Bobby had smiled as he took another sip of his coffee, and watched as the shadows cast from the fire danced over the slumbering little boys camped out on his living room floor._


	6. Chapter 6

A/N:  _I have a couple of things in this chapter that bother me because I don’t agree with it due to the timeline, mainly technology. I couldn’t think up something better to replace it with, so I kept it. That being said, I’d like to restate my AU disclaimer from Chapter 1. I hope you enjoy, and thank you for reading!_

* * *

 

 

Except for the occasional pop from a log in the fireplace, the room was quiet and everyone was still. Sam was lying on his side; unmoving, quiet, and hopefully asleep.

Dean sat on the floor, gripping his brother's shoulder, just like he had while they waited for the drops to kick in.

Bobby stood back, looking at the two. Rubbing a hand over his head, he gave a silent nod. Things were going to be okay. He just had that gut feeling. Hell, they were already getting better.

This time had gone a lot smoother than the first couple of times anyone had tried to get the kid’s eyes to open. The whole operation was still a bit of a struggle, but there was improvement, and that’s what Bobby was going to focus on.

Dragging a hand down his face, Bobby looked at Dean. He could tell the kid’s mind was a million miles away. He cleared his throat to bring him back down to planet Earth.

He waited for Dean to look up at him, and then spoke softly as he asked, “You want help getting his eyes wrapped back up?”

Dean looked back at his brother, gave his shoulder a squeeze, and then turned and leaned against the couch. Scrubbing his hands through his hair, he yawned.

“Not yet,” Dean replied equally soft. “He woke up a few hours ago, mentioned he wanted a shower to get rid of the smell of the fire.”

Dean shot a glance over his shoulder at Sam, “I’m gonna wait a while; see if he comes around first.” He looked up at Bobby, “What time is it?”

Bobby looked down at his watch. He frowned at it, manipulating it around on his wrist until the firelight hit the face. “Just before two.”

Dean leaned his head back to rest against Sam’s drawn up knees, and sighed, “Yeah, gotta wake him up in thirty anyway. He’ll be due for some meds.”

Passing him the eye drops, Dean crawled the couple of feet over to his bed on the floor, and plopped down onto his back with a weary groan. “I should really get up to get stuff ready, but I can’t convince my body to care enough to move.”

“Then, just go back to sleep. I can get Sam his pills in a half hour and get his eyes bandaged back up.”

Dean rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and yawned again, “You even go to sleep yet, Bobby?”

He rolled his eyes at the kid, “Wouldn’t be the first all-nighter I’ve pulled. Go back to sleep for a few hours and then see what your body thinks about being on call.”

Dean was quiet for a bit, and Bobby could tell he was mulling over his offer. But, then he reached over and grabbed his phone.

“Nah, that’s alright. I’ll just kill some time. You can go ahead and turn in, Bobby.”

* * *

Scrolling through some of his favorite subs on Reddit, Dean thought about the day Sam had introduced him to what would become one of his favorite ways to waste time on the internet.

Sometime last year, thanks to nearly being eviscerated by a werewolf, he’d been laid up in bed for the better part two weeks. Near the end of the first week, he was bored out of his mind. He was climbing the walls, and he knew he had to have worn Sam down to his last nerve.

In fact, if he were honest with himself, Dean held no illusions that Sam hadn't entertained the idea of smothering him with his own pillow. And, he couldn’t have blamed the kid. It would have been an efficient way to put both of them out of their misery, with a minimal amount of mess.

Fortunately for him, Sam had instead decided to introduce Dean into the wonderful world of Reddit.

Now, he’s not too proud to admit that, at first, he’d put up a fuss about giving it an honest try.

It was just that, from what he knew about it, he didn’t see it being something he’d be interested in. It had always seemed to him like the kind of website that drew in the geeks—like moths to a street light.

That being said, Dean wasn’t for certain what had made him give in. It could have been his desperation for entertainment.

Or, more likely, it had been that disturbing calmness in Sam’s voice when he had _insisted_ Dean hear him out. Either way, Sam had won, and he handed his phone over with a big, dramatic sigh.

With a look of unabashed relief, Sam had taken a seat next to him on the bed and brought up the website. At first Sam showed him the feed for the most popular entries of the day. A few of them were interesting, but it still wasn’t something that he could see himself really getting into.

He’d expressed as much to his brother and, silencing him with a placating hand, Sam had brought out the big guns, introducing him to what would become some of his favorite subs.

Fails, Funny, Showerthoughts, and then just out of curiosity, Ghost stories and Ghost Posts. Those last two, they'd picked apart personal experiences and played detective hunter.

Most of the stories they had easily chalked up to a natural explanation. But, there were a few that sounded like they had the potential of being a legit haunting. One in particular Sam had sent a message to the user asking for more information. That one got penciled into their upcoming schedule.

And, that's what they did. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, leaning over Dean’s phone and laughing their asses off for a good two hours. Ever since then, he’d been hooked.

And even though the site had some fantastic content, it was the comments that always gave him the most entertainment.

In fact, that's what he'd been doing as he lie on Bobby's living room floor in the dark. He was scrolling through the comments on this one video, when one had caught him off guard. A laugh ripped past his defenses, and even though he'd managed to wrangle most of it back in, a snort still got past him.

"Showerthoughts, funny, or fails?"

"Fails," Dean replied and lowered the brightness on his screen.

"Hey, Dean?"

There was an edge to Sam's voice that had him putting the phone down. Turning at the waist, he looked up at his brother from his place on the floor, "Yeah, Sammy?"

"Is it, uh— is it ... _dark_ in here?"

"Yeah, Sammy. It's almost completely dark in here right now."

Dean didn't bother to mention that if he had looked his way, Sam should have seen the light from his phone. But, Dean was off to the side from where he was facing. If he'd just woken up, he probably wasn't looking his way. At least that's what Dean was hoping.

Sam exhaled, "Okay."

Dean sat up and scooted over in front of the couch, "Hey," he said and touched Sam's shoulder. "Hey, just so you know, for the next four days, every time we take the bandages off your eyes, where ever we are, it’ll be almost completely dark. Doctor's orders. So, I don't want you to be worried it you're not seeing anything."

Sam was quiet, and then said, "But it's not too dark for you to see right now. Right?"

Dean's face twisted as he considered his answer, "Kind of. If I wasn't looking in the area of my phone, I wouldn't be seeing much of anything. Fire’s out and Bobby’s got the drapes closed. Besides, remember what Groenendyk said? Temporary loss of sight is common with eye trauma. And, you're going to have that goop in your eyes for the next few days, so not only will the room be dark, it’ll be dark and blurry. Dude, minus the trauma, even _I_ wouldn’t be seeing much under those conditions."

Sam didn’t say anything to that, so Dean leaned to the side, to try to read him. He scowled, thumping him on the shoulder, “Hey; you remember what the doc said about keeping your eyes closed?”

“For the most part.”

Dean huffed, “So, close your damn eyes.”

Sam replied with an annoyed snort, but complied. Dean gave his head a playful scrub, and looked back at his phone. “It’s just about time for the next round of meds,” he said and looked back over at Sam. “You want to grab that shower first?”

“Absolutely. But, can I; with this?” Sam asked, lifting his bandaged arm.

“Yeah. You've just got to be careful with the water temp. No hot showers for a little while, and a few other extra precautions, but yeah, let’s go ahead and get that out-of-the-way, if you’re ready.”

“I was ready hours ago,” Sam replied, a little strained, as he pushed off the couch cushion and sat up.

Dean got up and watched him as he hesitated while getting to his feet. “Need a hand?”

Sam considered the offer and then sighed, “Yeah, maybe.”

Dean took a step forward and grabbed his brother under his good arm. He waited for him to start to move and then did a little tug and lift.

They got him to his feet okay enough, but it was when Sam was straightening out to his full height that he halted with a gasp. His injured hand reached out and clamped down hard on Dean’s arm.

“Stop-stop-stop—!” Sam cut off with a grunt, pulling his good hand from Dean’s grasp, and using it to brace himself on his thigh.

“Okay; just give it a minute,” Dean said, moving to stand in front of his brother, who was stuck at a ninety-degree angle. “Just go slow.”

“Yep,” Sam grunted again as he started to walk his hand up his leg, trying a little at a time to get his back to accept the new position. It took a minute, but he got there, for the most part.

“Hold up just a sec,” Dean said, making sure he was steady on his feet. Then, keeping a grip on his brother’s upper arm, he reached over and grabbed Sam’s mini Maglite from the end table.

Earlier, he’d switched out the clear lens for one that had a blue filter. Dean adjusted the beam to its widest setting, and the room was infused with a dark blue light.

Aiming the beam at his feet, Dean touched Sam’s lower back, “Alright.”

Taking a step forward on his signal, Sam grunted through a limp, and grabbed onto his shoulder for support.

“You’ve got it; just go slow," Dean told him, sliding his hand from Sam's back, to around his waist, tucking him against his side.

They’ve both thrown their backs out plenty of times, and watching Sam move all stiff and just, wrong, made Dean shuddered internally. Having an injured back sucked out loud. _Everything_ you did hurt.  Even stuff that you might not associate with your back. Things like: coughing, sneezing, laughing or lifting your leg. All of the above had a potential to cause a flare of pain that would take your breath away.

“Try to keep your eyes closed,” Dean reminded. Keeping him against his side, he guided and supported Sam as he limped his way across the floor.

He got a small grunt of acknowledgment, and Dean looked over, frowning and hating how much his brother was hurting. “You want to skip the shower for now, and just eat and take some meds?”

Sam shook his head and that time answered him with a short, breathy laugh, “Not a chance.”

Nodding in resignation, he sighed, “Yeah, I figured.”

They got to the doorway of the downstairs bathroom and Dean put his hand to Sam’s chest, "Okay, Sam, doorway’s just to your left.”

Sam reached out and grabbed a handful of air.

Taking him by the wrist, Dean guided his hand to the doorframe. Sam’s other hand released his shoulder, and found the other side of the entrance. He took a step in and lowered his right hand, running the tips of his fingers along the counter.

Touching Sam's back, Dean squeezed between him and the open door, and walked into the bathroom.

Outside the room’s open door, the hallway was pitch dark. Inside the bathroom wasn't much better.

There was a sliver of outdoor light that angled across the ceiling from the rectangular window above the shower. Although it offered up enough light for him to make out where the large fixtures were, he still needed the flashlight's blue light as he went about rearranging the shower.

"All right, Sammy," Dean turned, watching as Sam worked at unwrapping the gauze bandage from his arm. "Shampoo and conditioner are in the shower caddy. Shampoo bottle is on the left; it's got a few rubber bands around it. Soap and washcloth are just below. Your towel is draped over the rod near the front.”

Sam nodded as he pulled the last of the bandage off his arm, dropping the used material onto the counter.

Dean reached forward, gentle as he took Sam's hand and pulled it toward himself. "Let's make sure those wound pads aren't stuck to the burns."

Shifting to lean against the sink, Sam exhaled a deep breath, but remained patient as Dean peeled back the non-stick pads.

"Okay; no, you're good. You need help with anything before I leave you to it?"

"Change of clothes?"

Dean nodded, "Any specifics?"

Sam grinned, "Yeah. Something warm."

"Yeah, it's pretty chilly in here. Okay. I'm on it. Here—" Dean took Sam's good hand and placed in it a cotton ball, slathered with Vaseline. "Put this in your ear and keep it there until you're finished with the water."

Sam took the cotton ball, grimacing at the slimy slickness as he pinched it between his fingers.

Dean moved past him again as he made to leave, "I'll set your clothes on the counter, and then I'll be right outside. Keep the light _off,_ and don't be an idiot; you _call me_ if you need a hand. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah," Sam sighed as he shoved the cotton ball in his ear.

* * *

Dean leaned against the wall, chewing his lip, as he listened to the third grunt that came from behind the door since the shower had shut off. Every so often, Sam would throw in a hiss, but he was still moving around in there, so Dean figured he had it under control.

A few minutes later, there was a light thump against the door and then the handle rattled right before it turned. The door opened, and Dean frowned.

"What the hell, Sam?” He groaned as his little brother came out of the bathroom shivering. Jumping forward, Dean grabbed him by the arms. ”You take a cold shower or something?"

"Had to keep turning it down,” Sam replied through chattering teeth. "It kept burning, when the water would hit my chest or arm."

Dean cursed, reaching past him to the shelf with the dry towels. Draping one around Sam's shoulders, he pulled it across his front and grabbed his good hand. "Hold this closed, and stay here a sec," he leaned his brother against the wall. "And, don’t try to go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

He left Sam standing outside the bathroom and jogged to the living room, snatching up his sleeping bag from his makeshift bed, and headed back.

“Damn it, Sammy,” Dean grumbled, exchanging the towel for his blanket. “Been fighting against the burns for hours, trying to keep your damned body temp close to normal, and you go and take a freaking cold shower.”

"Wasn't a _cold_ shower," Sam stuttered out between shivers as Dean was wrapping his arm around his back, turning him toward the living room.

Dean huffed, "Cold enough to leave you shivering, Sam."

To which, Sam responded with a huff of his own, "It's freezing in here, Dean. Pretty sure I'd be shivering by the time I got dressed anyhow."

"Yeah; well, that's because you're moving slower than Ernie Lombardi—take a step to your right."

Following his direction, Sam chuckled at the baseball reference and stretched out his left hand in defense of doorway he'd been a little too close to. Skimming his fingertips along the wood, he pressed his palm against it, using it for support, as they moved through the cased opening and back into the living room. 

Dean got him settled on the couch and then went for the thermometer. "Gonna check your temp," he said, touching it to his brother's forehead.

Dean sighed at the readout. "Shit."

"What's it say?"

"Ninety-frickin-seven point two." Dean told him, tucking his sleeping bag tightly around his brother. He grabbed a fleece blanket he'd yanked off Sam earlier, "Two tenths lower than your bottom reading back at the hospital.”

Sam shivered, drawing his knees up under the blankets, and Dean grabbed a few more from the stash. "Here's a dry towel," he said, tossing it into his lap, "Get your head dried off better. I'm gonna go throw some blankets in the dryer and heat them up.”

Dean thought for a second, watching as Sam snaked his good hand out of his cocoon and found the towel, "You should probably have a cup of tea or something to warm you up from the inside. The doc had you on warmed saline when you were running cold."

"Is there cocoa?"

Dean grinned, "Yeah. Hang tight; I'll be right back."

About fifteen minutes and one finished cup of hot cocoa later, Dean was setting down the thermometer with a nod of satisfaction, "Not great, but a lot better. How are you feeling, though? Still pretty chilled?"

"Kind of," Sam replied, burrowing further into his toasty nest of blankets. "Doesn't feel like my insides are shivering anymore, though."

"I'd say that's an improvement. Let's get your eyes wrapped back up and then we'll cover your head with the beanie again. That made a big difference last time."

"Yeah, okay."

Having all the necessary supplies laid out on the coffee table before them, Dean placed a knee on the side of the couch, and leaned over his brother.

Sam laid his head against the back of the couch and opened his eyes. He managed to get them to open a decent amount this time, but Dean still needed to expose them a little more.

Angling the flashlight better, Dean took care as he raised the lid to his brother’s eye a little higher. He was getting ready to squirt ointment into the eye, when Sam asked, "So, what contingency plans have you come up with so far?"

"Contingency plans?" Dean asked as he squeezed the small tube.

"Yeah. Contingency plans. You know; ideas on what the hell we're going to if I don't get my sight back."

Dean was about to raise the lid on the other eye, but he stopped and looked down at Sam with a frown, "I thought we agreed you weren't going to worry about that."

Sam snickered, "Uh, right. Put yourself in my position, and let me know how that works for you."

Dean sighed and hesitated with a reply. Hovering over his brother still, he looked into his eyes. The dull, blue light didn't offer up much light for details, but it was enough to tell Sam wasn't looking back at him.

His anxiety tried to take the wheel, but then Sam blinked, and Dean welcomed the distraction as he got back to work.

Placing the palm of his hand over Sam's forehead again, he used his thumb to peel back the other eyelid, "I don't know, Sam. It all comes down to the final outcome—close your eyes."

"But, you've been thinking about it; the possibility?"

Dean set the ointment down and grabbed two packages of sterile eye pads. Sure, he'd been thinking about it. He just didn't want Sam to know _how much_ he'd been thinking about it. He didn't want it to seem like he'd lost all hope, like it was the only thing he was thinking about, when he'd been thinking about all of it. Every foreseeable outcome, and what their options would be for each one.

Doubling the packages up, Dean tore them open in one motion, saying, "Yeah, Sammy. I've been thinking about it. I've been thinking about _all_ the possible results. Way I figure it: If you _are_ left with lasting damage, it pretty much comes down to adapting and making it work, or retiring."

He placed the pads over Sam's eyes, "Hold these and raise your head up. Do _not_ rub."

Sam sighed, "How in the hell am I supposed to _adapt_ to hunting if I can't see?"

Dean pulled a fresh roll of gauze from its package and gave his brother a look, "I meant, adapt if you’re left with one of the more minor, not-a-full-recovery outcomes. Like, photosensitivity or seeing through a haze or cloudiness."

Sam snorted as Dean began to wrap the gauze around his head, "That'd be great. Hunting at night when everything's already cloudy to begin with."

"So, we do more hunting during the day. You can drop your hands now."

"Sure, because we hunt during the day so often, as it is."

Taping off the end of the gauze, Dean exhaled hard as he smoothed the tape along the side of his brother's head, "So what are you telling me, Sam? You throwing in the towel already?"

"I—no," Sam sighed.

Dean shot him a glance as he was gathering up empty packages and wrappers. Walking over to Bobby’s desk, he tossed out the trash in his hand. He clicked on the desk lamp, and then sat on the couch with his brother.

Turning toward Dean, Sam continued, "I'm not giving up. Okay? I'm not. But, at the same time I'm trying to be practical. I mean, Dean; what do we do…? What do we _do_ if I don't get my vision back? Where do we go from there—where do _I_ go from there?"

"Hey. Slow down for a sec," Dean said moving the arm he had draped over the back of the couch, and touched his brother's shoulder. "Sammy, _if_ that happens, then we'll do exactly what we always do when we get screwed over. We'll deal with it, we'll figure it out, and then we'll kick it in the ass."

Sam rested his head back against the couch and sighed. Dean knew that sigh. That sigh said Sam was spinning his wheels over trying to figure it out. As much as Dean wanted to shelter his brother from thinking the worst, he knew what he needed before he’d be able to let it go for the night.

"Sam, listen to me," Dean paused, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Look. If hashing out a plan over worst-case scenarios will help slow down the gears in your brain, let's go ahead and jump the gun for a minute, and say you did go blind. If we decided not to retire, there are plenty of ways you could still be a part of the hunt. You could still do the research; that I wouldn't dream of depriving you from—"

"You’re too kind."

Dean grinned, "I’m awesome; I know.”

Sam smirked, and he continued, “Finding cases, keeping track of omens, figuring out mythology, strategizing, tracking down strange crap for spells... Yeah, you wouldn't be going out in the field, but you would be far from useless."

Sam was quiet, and then said, "If we did end up going that route, I'd have a few stipulations."

"Well, c'mon. Lay’em on me."

Sam sat forward, turning to face him, and like earlier, Dean could feel the weight of his absent stare as he began to tick off on his fingers.

"No hunting if you’re not at 100%. No unnecessary risks. No going in all halfcocked. If I don't agree with something, or something doesn't seem right, you listen to what I have to say and _together_ we decide what measures to take."

"Okay."

"And, no hunting alone. Ever."

"Sam—"

"No solo salt and burns. No shtrigas or tooth fairies. No vampire den stakeouts—"

"No stakeouts?" Dean whined, rolling his eyes so hard his head followed along, "Sammy, _c'mon_."

"No, Dean. No solo missions. I won't budge on that one. I..." Sam was quiet for a beat, and then he sighed, "Look. If it turns out that I am... blinded _,_ I don’t expect you hold my hand or anything, but—"

Sam exhaled sharply, "Dean, I could handle it. You know? Going blind. It would suck. _A lot_. But, it wouldn't be the end of my world. I'd figure it out, and I know I'd get to a place where I could handle it. I could handle losing my sight, but I couldn’t handle losing you, too.  It would all be too much. Especially if it happened over something as stupid and avoidable as hunting alone. Dean, I couldn't handle it. I—"

"Alright; alright. Sam; hey—" Dean cut in, grabbing his brother's face when he started to lose it. The unexpected contact made Sam flinch within his grasp, but Dean didn't let go. Scowling at how quickly their spit-balling had turned serious, Dean shook his head and looked his brother over. All the signs of a little-brother-freak-out were surfacing, and Dean was swift to put a lid on it.

Trying to anchor his brother, he moved a hand to the back of his neck and squeezed, "I'm not going anywhere, man. Calm down. Okay?" Dean said, giving his neck another squeeze. "Sam, this is just a what-if scenario. No decisions are being made tonight. Alright?"

Sam choked down a swallow and nodded a little too quickly. The vein in his forehead that always made an appearance when his brother was stressed, stood out, and Dean's hand rejoined the other to capture his face again.

He watched Sam's brows pull together as he ducked his head to the side. Moving with him, Dean watched him closely, "Hey, what's going on in that head; huh?"

Sam let Dean draw him back to face him. His breathing was mostly even, but his brows were still pinched, and his nostrils flared a couple of times. Both were tells that his brother was not alright.

"Sammy? C'mon. Talk to me, man. Tell me what's got you all twisted up on the inside."

Dean could see him try a couple of times to swallow down the lump stuck in his throat. Releasing Sam's face, his hand brushed back the bangs on his left side and then came down to grip his shoulder, "Sam?"

Raising his face up at the ceiling, Sam drew in a deep, unsteady breath, and then released it. "I..." He started, and then paused as he moved to face him again. His alignment was only off by a little, but it reminded Dean about their worst possible outcome. Something that Dean’s had to work at very hard not to think about.

When his brother didn't continue, Dean gave his shoulder a squeeze of encouragement. It gave Sam the boost he needed and he sighed deeply before starting again.

"I... Um, like I said, if I had to, I could find a way to handle... this—" Sam gestured toward his eyes. "But, a huge part in being able to overcome it, would be having you there to help."

"Not just me, Sam. You'd have Bobby there, too."

"Yeah, I know, Dean. And, Bobby's great, but—"

A nervous smile spread across Sam's face and he shook his head, "God, this is going to sound so pathetic..."

Sam stopped talking and turned his face away. Dean watched him, but he didn't interrupt his thoughts. He sat and waited, and after a sigh, Sam turned back.

"He's not you. Okay? He’s always been there for us, I know. But, he doesn’t know me like you do. And, to be honest, this is whole situation is scaring the crap out of me, Dean. I know you don't want me thinking the worst, but it's kinda hard not to. And, if that does happen, and then I end up losing you, too—over some _stupid_ , avoidable circumstance—"

"Okay, Sammy." 

"Because I wasn't there to have your back—"

"Hey; I get it.”

"I don't think I could come back from that," Sam finished, his voice becoming flimsy, and then gave out all together on those last few words.

The frown of concern etched onto Dean’s face drug deeper into his features. Reaching out, he took the base of his brother's head into the palm of his hand, "Okay, Sam. I'm hearing, ya. I get it, man."

Dean studied him, "Okay? I get it. But, now I need you to listen to me. Alright?"

Sam nodded, and Dean rubbed his thumb along the side of his head, "You gonna listen to me, Sammy?'

He received another nod, and Dean took a deep breath, “Okay. I want you to listen to me, because this is how it's going to be."

Dean stopped and leaned in closer, "If it turns out that you can’t hunt anymore, _you_ decide if we retire or not. If you want us to retire; we retire."

Sam shook his head, “I couldn’t ask that of you, Dean.”

“Hey. It seems only fair that, the person who loses his sight, gets to call the shots on where we go from there. You don’t want me to hunt? I won’t hunt.”

“Your head would be spinning inside of a month.”

“Sam. If you have to figure out a way to navigate through life without your sight, then I think I can figure out how to go through life without hunting.”

Sam grinned, “Not sure which of us would have a harder time at it."

Dean matched his brother's grin, “We could have a contest. First one to conquer his obstacle wins. Bonus points for being the lesser bitch about it.”

Sam laughed, causing Dean’s smile to take over his face. He rubbed his thumb along the side of his brother’s head again and asked, "We good now?"

He received another nod, but this one felt sincere and calmer. Dean released the back of his brother's head, and gave the side of his face a couple of affectionate pats.

“You need to take those meds; think you could eat something?”

Sam thought about it. “Yeah, actually.”

Dean got up and stretched, “Sandwich, cup of soup, pizza, yogurt... What are you up for?”

Sam made a face, “Bobby has yogurt?”

Dean shrugged while slipping his Jayhawks beanie over his brother’s head, “I went on a supply run after we got back and got you settled.”

Sam smiled at that, and then asked, “There's pizza?”

“Yup.”

“That sounds kinda good.”

Dean considered his brother and asked, “Think your stomach is up to it? Does it feel off at all?”

Sam tugged the blankets up and leaned his head back against the couch again, “Not even a little.”

“All right, sit tight and I’ll be right back.” Dean turned to leave for the kitchen, but then turned back.  

“Hey, Sam?”

“What?”

“No more thinking for tonight. Okay, bitch?”

Sam turned his head to face him, and smiled, “Yeah, okay.”

Satisfied, Dean turned and walked off. He was two steps into the kitchen when the expected reply came his way.

“… jerk.”

_TBC..._

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

_Wow. Nine months since I've updated. That's terrible! Thank you, guys, for being patient and hanging in there. Hopefully the length of this chapter will help to make up for the delay in getting it posted. Originally, I had planned to have this story completed over the span of a few weeks, but then something came up from out of left field and took up all of my writing time. I think things have settled down, and I hope I can have the final chapter done and posted by next week sometime._

_Thank you for all of the reviews, follows and favorites. You guys are awesome. I hope you enjoy the chapter._

_Disclaimer: Story is AU. All characters belong to Supernatural and the CW._

_P.S. Because I was in an big, fat hurry to get it posted, this chapter is unbeta'd. So, if you find any mistakes, they're all mine..._

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Walking through the yard, Sam thought about how it had been roughly thirty hours since the explosion that had left their lives teetering on the precarious edge of uncertainty. Even though that uncertainty was always in the forefront of his mind, Sam was starting to notice a few things that were allowing him start looking past it. Small things that some might think didn't amounted to very much, but they were an improvement—a positive among the tentacles of negativity that surrounded him in the suffocating darkness.

Jess had once told him: _When you're stuffed into a shitty situation, you have to look for the positive. Because no matter how bad it is, there is going to be a positive. You might have to search for it, but it's there. Find it and hold tight to it. When the bad tries to suck you back in, turn your back on it, and focus on the good._ Then she had taken his face in her hands and stared straight into his soul, telling him:  _You can do it, Sam. To find peace in your situation, you just have to fight for it. If you fight for it, you can have it._

It's been years since he lost Jess, but her voice still came to him when he needed her most. Sometimes it showed up to give him a kick in the ass, telling him to quit being such a moron, but most times it comes to lift him up when he's down. Last night was no different. He'd felt her while he and Dean were hashing things out, and afterward, after Dean had passed out on the floor beside the couch, he could still feel her with him. He could hear clearly what she'd be saying and had drifted off while listening to the memory of her voice.

In the morning, he decided to start looking for the positives. And he had found things like: He was definitely feeling better than he did last night. His back was still messed up enough to give him problems, but it hadn't locked up on him again. Even better, his eyes seemed to have mellowed out.

He did end up having an episode sometime around two that afternoon. Good news is, it wasn't anywhere as bad as the night before. Instead of a hot, shooting pain, he'd rank it somewhere around an intense displeasure. In fact, he was going to skip the drops and just ride it out. But Dean wasn't okay with that, saying they shouldn't push their luck. He had argued back that it wasn't bad enough to go through all the hassle. And then Dean had put down the counter offer of it being just over a day since he'd been blown up. Humor him, and next time he'll let him suffer, if he really wanted to.

Touching his fingertips to the exterior wall to Bobby's storage building, Sam followed it and let it be his guide as he made his way around to the front. He's spent enough of his life at Bobby's that he could probably walk around the place blindfolded without much of a problem. Which, yeah, he got the irony of that thought. Maybe when the bandages come off and, God willing, everything is fine, maybe he'll give it a try just to prove to himself that he could, if he had to.

Turning the corner to the front of the building, Sam ducked his head against the wind. It was blowing out of the north today and it was cold enough to have a bite that felt like needles to his exposed skin. Pulling the beanie down to protect his ear better, Sam grimaced when a hard shiver aggravated his back. It was the first time since waking this morning that body heat was an issue. To be fair, he hadn't gotten back up to his normal temp yet, but he'd gotten close enough that he really hadn't felt chilled. Being warm felt fantastic. Especially after being frozen stiff after that shower last night.

His hand found the edge to the large sliding door and he followed along it to the other end. Reaching out and finding only empty space told him the door was already open. Sam stepped inside and took a deep breath. Being out of the wind was a relief, and even though he'd had his ear protected, the cold still made his blown eardrum throb with a deep ache. Still, regardless of the discomfort, being up and moving around was still better than sitting on the couch doing a whole lot of nothing.

Feeling his way past the door, he'd made it far enough into the building that he half expected Bobby to have noticed him by then. There was a good chance though, that he wasn't even there, and Sam wasn't about to go traversing through a chaos of machines, engines, and all of their parts, to find that out. Taking a few more steps brought him to a shelving unit and there he stopped to listen.

At first, the only thing he heard was the wind outside and the way the building groaned from the force of it. But, then there was a clank of metal hitting metal, and Bobby cursed.

Sam grinned; the man was tinkering with something while muttering to himself, and it was pretty clear that whatever he was working on wasn't cooperating. "Hey, Bobby," he called out.

The muttering came to a sudden halt. Something metal dropped against the concrete floor and Bobby called back, "Sam?"

The answer came from the far, back corner and Sam took a few careful steps further inside. There was the sound of something getting kicked out-of-the-way, and when Bobby spoke again Sam was a little surprised at how close he was already, "This probably isn't the best area for you to try and find your way through," Bobby said, touching his arm. "Got junk lying all over; don't think there's a clear path in the whole place."

Sam tilted his head a little, asking, "Is that why you're out here so much lately?"

There was a heavy pause, and then Bobby said, "Not sure I catch your meaning."

"Well, it's just that, for someone who can't see, your storage building is probably the worst place on the property to try to navigate."

"… Your point being?"

Sam grinned, "You avoiding me, Bobby?"

The hunter scoffed, "Hell, no, I ain't avoiding you."

"Been rummaging through this stuff an awful lot over the last day and a half..."

"Yeah, well, that's because I've been trying to disassemble a transmission, but the damn housing bolts are rusted stuck."

"You want some help?" Sam asked, hoping he'd been able to contain the shiver that choose that exact moment to vibrate through him.

"How cold you been running today, kid?"

— _Damn—_  "Uh, not too bad."

"Not too bad, huh?"

"Nah."

"Uh huh. You break 98.0 yet?"

Sam smiled and shrugged, "More or less."

" _More or less,"_  Bobby grumbled, giving Sam's arm a gentle tug. "Well, c'mon. Your brother's going to have hissy fit if he finds you out here in the cold. Might as well get away from the door and come on back here where I got a heater running."

With a hand on his back, Bobby started to guide him through the mess. A couple of times he was told to hold on, so Bobby could scoot something out-of-the-way. He ended up having to step over something else, and his back gave a pull, forcing out a grunt and sending him into a little stumble-step to the side. He started to lose his balance but then Bobby's hands grabbed him by the shoulders and steadied him. "You alright?"

Standing up straight again, he gave Bobby's arm a pat, "I'm good."

"How many times you fall down on your way out here?"

"I didn't."

"Uh, huh." Responded Bobby. His hand touched Sam's back as they started moving again, but unlike last time, the man kept a grip on his arm.

Sam laughed, "Bobby, I've been making the trip from the house to out here by myself since I was like, four."

"Yeah, and all those times, you'd been able to see."

"My point is, I know the way pretty well."

"Your brother know you're out here?"

"He knows."

"And, he was okay with you going it on your own, huh?"

The sarcasm was impossible to miss, and Sam sighed. "I'm not a kid anymore. I don't need his permission."

They stopped moving, but Bobby didn't respond, and after a moment, Sam grinned. "Bobby, are you giving me a look?"

There was a huff and then, "Maybe."

Sam's smile grew as Bobby dragged something closer to him, and then his jeans started to feel nice and toasty. Sam knew it was the heater.

"Here; have a seat—just to your right." Bobby told him and kept the hand on his arm while Sam found the edge and eased himself down.

The hand disappeared and after few shuffling steps Sam heard a drawer open. Tools clanked together as Bobby searched for the one he wanted, saying, "I can't believe your brother has let you out of his sight this long already."

"C'mon, Bobby. You make it sound like Dean's a nervous mother."

"I'm sorry, have you  _met_  Dean?"

"Yeah, okay, he worries. But, he knows I'm out here with you."

There was a snort, and then Bobby said, "Like that matters."

"You saying he doesn't trust you to look out for me?" Sam huffed, "Jeez, Bobby. You practically raised us."

"True as that may be, there is one thing you're forgetting."

"What?"

"I ain't Dean Winchester. And, when it all comes out in the end,  _nobody_ can take care of Dean Winchester's kid brother better—than Dean Winchester."

Sam grinned, "Yeah, okay. You might be onto something."

Moving closer again, Bobby chuckled, "Thought so."

A few things were set down nearby and, Sam asked, "What exactly are you working on, Bobby?"

"It's like I said: I'm disassembling a transmission."

"Right. But, why?"

"So, I can get to a few parts I need to fix Rufus' truck."

Sam frowned, "I thought he fixed it yesterday?" A sharp clanging rang out as Bobby used what sounded like a hammer against the tranny.

"Oh, he  _fixed_  it, all right. It's not slipping out of fourth anymore. Problem is, now it won't come of it, either. The damn fool fixed it just enough to really screw it up. Can't get this damn bolt to…budge." Bobby grunted and then Sam heard what he figured was a wrench, skid off the bolt.

"Balls!"

"You want some help?"

There was a sigh and Sam was sure he could feel the weight of Bobby's gaze as the hunter did a quick assessment of his condition. "Sure, if you think you're up for it."

"Just tell me what you need me to do."

An aerosol spray carried with it a familiar scent and Bobby said, "I'm gonna try the WD40 on it again," He set the can down and then grabbed a tool. "Here, take this," Bobby said, rounding his side of the transmission. Sam reached out and a wrench landed in his hand. "I need you to hold this steady," he said as he guided the wrench to a nut. "It's gonna want to turn on you. I need you to try to keep it from moving while I see if I can't get the bolt on the other end to loosen."

"Okay," Sam responded to the sound of Bobby's boots scuffing against the cement as he went back around to the other side. He waited for the signal and then held the wrench steady as Bobby worked the bolt from his end.

Bobby's no push over, and even though Sam's a big guy, he still had to work at keeping his wrench from turning while Bobby put all his strength into getting that bolt to turn. There was no question that it put a strain on his injured back, but just being out of the house and being useful—it was a major boost to his spirits. Besides, Sam knew his limits. He had no intentions to push himself too far and cause a setback. He'd let Bobby know if he got to the point where he needed to stop. As it turned out, it wasn't much longer until Bobby gave up with another curse.

It was quiet for a while as they thought, and then Sam asked, "Hey, Bobby. You got any distilled vinegar lying around?"

"I might. Why?"

"Well, you could put vinegar on the bolts. The acid should react with the rust and kind of break it down."

"That right..." Bobby trailed off as he walked somewhere over to Sam's right and started rummaging around the shelves. He unscrewed what sounded like the gritty ring to a mason jar and then a second later, Bobby coughed, "Yup. Got some right here."

He came back over, asking, "So, just pour it straight over, huh?"

"Yeah, shouldn't take too much. Just enough to cover it." He answered as a sharp wave of vinegar filled his sinuses.

"How long you think it'll take?" Bobby asked as he screwed the lid back on the jar.

"I'm not sure," Sam smiled. "I've never actually done it before, just heard Dad talking about it one time. But, I don't think very long if the rust isn't too thick. Maybe try it again in a few minutes."

Bobby set the jar down on something and then gave a short, little groan, just before the joints of an old metal chair gave a groan of its own. Sam figured he'd sat down to wait. They were quiet again. The sounds of the wind whistling outside, and the droning hum heater, filled their silence while Sam drummed his fingers against the side of whatever he was sitting on. He felt what seemed like the corner of a label and started picking at it, wondering if it was a good time to say what he'd ventured out there to say. He decided pretty quickly that there probably wouldn't ever be a  _good_  time. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Hey, Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"It wasn't your fault."

Bobby didn't reply, but a moaning creak of the hunter's chair told him the man had become restless. A hard exhale that told him Bobby knew exactly what he was talking about. But, when there was still no response, Sam continued, "I know you probably think that it was. But, it wasn't."

Bobby remained quiet, but then he sighed, "I appreciate what you're saying, Sam. But, no. I can't buy into that."

"Bobby, c'mon—"

"Sam—" Bobby snapped from his side of the transmission, and then he stopped, and took a breath. "You got hurt because I asked someone else to do something that was my responsibility."

 _"No...,_  I got hurt because someone else was an idiot."

"Damn it, boy. It ain't that simple." Bobby sighed again. Sam could picture him removing his hat to scrub at his head. "Instead of taking care of something as dangerous as using fuel to light a pile of dead brush, I got lazy and pawned it off on someone else. And you're paying the price for it."

"Bobby," Sam huffed and shook his head, "You've got people running in and out of here just about every day asking you for a favor in some way or another. God knows Dean and I are constantly asking for your help. I know a lot of other hunters do also. You're just about the least lazy person I know. So, you asked for a little help in return? What's wrong with that?"

"Because, you're sitting across from me, all beat to hell and can't even look at me because the doc's got your eyes all wrapped up. That's what's wrong with it, Sam. Your whole damn life might have been turned completely upside down because I trusted someone else to do a job. All this never would have happened if I'd have just lit the damn pile myself."

"Okay. Sure. But, Bobby, you could say that about anything bad that happens to anyone, on any day. When something happens, there is always going to be something that could have been done differently: Guy driving home from work takes the scenic route instead of the highway like usual, ends up hitting a dog that ran out into the street; if he'd gone his usual route, it wouldn't have happened… Uh, a wife asks her husband to go to the store with her but he's tired from working, and stays home. She gets into an accident; is it his fault because he wasn't there…? Kid walks home alone from school every day for years. One day he goes missing; is it the parents' fault for not picking him up on that one day?"

Sam paused. When he didn't get a reply he said, "Bobby, there are a few things in life that are a set constant. But, for the most part, it's just one big game of chance. You asked someone you trusted to do a task. I know there is no way you wouldn't have asked him if you thought there was a chance that he'd screw it up. He let  _you_  down, Bobby.  _He_  screwed up; not you."

Bobby remained quiet and Sam started to wonder if he'd been talking to himself for the last few minutes. He listened for a few more seconds. "Bobby…?"

"You're something else, kid."

Sam smirked, "How so?"

"You're facing a crap-pile of stress right now, and you're over there worrying about my delicate feelings."

Sam laughed with a shrug, "Just being family."

He heard Bobby's soft chuckle and it was easy to picture him wearing a crooked grin. Then there was the same moaning and groaning of metal as he got up from his seat and asked, "You think you're up to giving this bastard one more go?"

"Sure," Sam scooted forward to put his wrench back where he thought Bobby first had it, "This the right one?"

"That's it. Feel like you can pull against that nut while I push against the bolt? See if we can't get it to budge this time?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

"You sure that hand of yours can take the strain?"

Sam flexed his right hand against the bandages a couple of times, then nodded, "I won't use it much. It'll be fine."

"Okay then, on three. One… two… pull, Sam, pull-pull."

Sam gritted his teeth as he used the strength and leverage his body could afford and, he wasn't sure, but he thought he felt the nut give way a bit. He was certain of it when Bobby started grumbling at the hardware.

"That's it, you obstinate piece of junk... give it up… c'mon… give it… up." The nut moved a little bit again, and Bobby said, "It's goin'! Keep pulling, Sam. It's gonna go…"

The sounds of the wind and heater were drowned out by the grunts of two hunters who worked together to loosen one single bolt. The was a jolt as the hardware gave again, and then once more, before it was stripped free from the rust and spun easily.

"Finally, you stupid piece of rusty crap." Bobby grumbled, tossing his wrench to the floor. Sam dropped his at the same time, but instead of dropping his out of victory, he dropped it so he could catch himself. Having the nut give way after he'd been pulling so hard against it threw him off-balance. He teetered and was about to reach out for something when a set of hands grabbed him from behind. He was steadied, and then Dean's voice was sounding off from over his head.

"Jeez, Bobby. The kid gets blown halfway across the property yesterday, and you're already putting him back to work?"

Bobby never skipped a beat, "Hey, you come out here, you'd better be ready to work."

Sam chuckled, and then, in spite of sitting in front of the heater, a hard shiver rolled straight through him. Dean started to pull him to his feet, saying, "You're a real slave driver; you know that, Bobby? C'mon, Sam."

"Well, Dean," Bobby replied. "Then I guess I'd better live up to my reputation. How about you get this one in out of the cold—" Sam envisioned Bobby pointing at him with whatever tool happened to be in his hand— "and throw dinner in the oven while you're in there. I got a meatloaf in the fridge. All it needs is a few cut up vegetables. Think you can handle that?"

"Bobby, please." His brother drawled, and Sam could hear the smile in his voice, "I've been cooking for years. Isn't that right, Sammy?" Dean asked, patting Sam on the back.

"Ah," Sam grinned and turned to face his brother. "That depends. Are we counting macaroni and cheese with cut up hotdogs as cooking?"

Dean steered him toward the door, "If were comparing it to Dad's tuna casserole? Then, absolutely."

Taking a hold of Dean's upper arm, Sam tipped his head back and laughed hard, "I'd forgotten about that! Man, that was bad."

"Yeah, it was…," Dean trailed off and slowed their pace as the hard, even surface of the concrete floor changed to the rocky, gravel path leading up to the house. They were quiet for a beat, and then Dean started to chuckle, "Dad got so pissed with you because you took one bite and refused to eat anymore."

"That's because it tasted like burnt roadkill."

"Right, and you told him that, too."

Sam smirked, "Yeah, but he didn't believe me-"

"—In his defense, you said that about a lot of things— "

"—until he grabbed my plate, griping that there was nothing wrong with it, and took a bite for himself."

"Stairs, Sammy," Dean stopped laughing just long enough to give him the heads up, then added, "He chewed like two times and then spit it back out, right onto your plate."

Reaching the top of the stairs, Sam cracked up and grabbed onto the railing until he could spit out, "You actually fought with Dad when he tried to take your plate away."

The squeal of the screen door mixed with the sound of Dean's light laughter and when he replied, his tone was both defensive and amused, "Yeah, well, I was hungry—one more, Sam."

Sam stepped into the kitchen, having the odd thought that he didn't have to worry about wiping tears from his eyes, thanks to the bandages. He figured that could count as another positive, and the macabre-like nature behind that thought had him laughing to himself again.

"Holy crap," Dean sighed, sounding weary, but happy, and Sam wondered if maybe he was clearing away his own tears. It had been a  _long_  time since they'd laughed that hard.

. "You've got a clear shot to the table, man," Dean told him.

Sam found the table, and then the chair. Pulling off the beanie, he tossed it on the table and took a seat. He had to sit down a little more carefully than he did when he was out in the shop with Bobby. It was because of the mild strain he put on his back out there, he knew that, but it was worth it. It had been good for both him and Bobby to work together at something for a while. Besides, he wasn't worried about it. He was just a little stiff, and it wasn't like he'd done it any more damage.

A jingling at the other side of the room told him Dean was pulling open the fridge door. He heard him rummaging around and setting things on the counter, and then he came over and set something down on the table in front of him.

"Want a coke?" Dean asked while popping the top on a bottle of beer. Thanks to the meds, alcohol was a no for him.

"Thanks," Sam said, reaching for the can. He opened it and took a sip as Dean had apparently ducked back in the fridge. Glass jars slid to the side, something was grabbed from the door and then his brother started opening and the closing drawers.

Settling back into the kitchen chair, Sam took another drink from his can and listened to the wind barrel against the wall beside him. He had the thought that it must have switched directions if it was hitting the west wall. Coming out of the east wouldn't make it any warmer than earlier, when it was out of the north. It had picked up speed and if he had to guess, he'd say it was gusting at no less than thirty miles per hour. Whistling high and low at the same time, it was like a ghostly chorus that sang in and out of tune with itself. It made him infinitely grateful for the four walls surrounding him. He and Dean spent nights like this in the Impala and Sam could think of little that he enjoyed less, than the way those nights stretch on when you were not only uncomfortable, but also miserably cold.

"Hey," The door to the fridge slammed shut and Sam tracked his brother's movements over to the counter by the stove. "Remember that haunted-deli job dad had us take care of back in '99?"

"In Atlanta?"

"Yeah."

"That was '01."

A paper sack was torn open and then what Sam assumed were potatoes, hit the counter in a series of dull thuds. "What? No. It was '99."

Sam frowned, "Atlanta."

"Yeah."

"Possessed salami?"

The rhythmic chopping going on at the counter stuttered, "Man, I hated that thing—yes."

Sam grinned, "You were like, sword fighting with a floating log of salami. I was laughing so hard, I think I actually pulled something—And, it was '01."

"Yeah, you suck. And, it was 1999."

"No, it wasn't."

"It was, Sam—"

"Nope."

"Yes, it was!" Dean set the knife down, "You wanna know how I know?" Dean asked, his voice carrying in a way that Sam could tell that he was now facing him. "I know because after that, we met up with Dad and almost got out asses handed to us by a group of thugs that had gotten a little too interested in Baby."

Sam thought about what his brother was saying, and then he shook his head, "No, Dean, that was Charlotte. That was like two jobs after the deli."

Dean was quiet, and then said, "No... was it?"

"Yeah, and it was 2001, because I was a senior that year, in Ft. Lauderdale for a while before we skipped town to do a string of jobs around Atlanta. Charlotte and the car gawkers were a couple of days after the floating salami."

His brother was quiet for a beat, "You sure?"

Sam chuckled, "I'm positive, Dean."

There was silence, and then the chopping started up again. So, did the dinner-prep commentary. Dean moved on from haunted salamis and started talking about his favorite deli in Philadelphia, then his crazy thought train brought him to a babysitter they had way back in the day that Dean had been convinced was a witch. Sam had only been four-years-old, which is why it had been so obvious to him after Dean had pointed it out. After that, they started slipping doses of salt into her food and drinks. Of course, if she  _had_  been a witch, it never did a thing to her, except make her very confused. Although, after a while, she did start muttering to herself about having to remake  _another_  sandwich or get a fresh glass of water.

Sam listened as he took another drink from his soda and then set it down on the table, but the can made a softer sound than it should have. Sliding his hand down the can, he touched the surface to see what it was. He was expecting a pile of napkins, or maybe an envelope stuffed with a fat utility bill, but the feel of it told Sam it was a notepad.

Moving his can off to the side, Sam picked it up and after a rough calculation of its outer dimensions, figured it was an 8.5 x 14-inch legal pad. Running his fingertips over it, he could feel the writing indentations that took up the entire top page. He flipped the page back and felt the next page, and then did the same to the next page, and then the one after that.

"—remember her? She had all that wiry grey hair and was in love with that dude from  _As the World Turns._ What in the hell was her  _name_..."

"Sharon—hey, Dean. Is this yours?"

He could tell Dean turned to look, because the chopping stopped and so did the chatter. It seemed like there was a hesitation, but then his brother confirmed it and kept chopping and talking.

Sam didn't think too much about the odd exchange, but still he asked, "What is this?"

"Just notes, Sam."

There was an uneasy tone buried beneath his brother's carefree response. It made him curious and so he pressed on, "Notes?" Sam laughed, flipping back another page, and then another. He ran his fingers down the next and said, "Dean, you haven't taken these many notes in the last four years combined."

"Yeah, I have."

"Ha! Ah, no you haven't. What in the world are you taking notes on?"

"Just some research."

"On what?"

"What do you mean,  _on what_? It's just research, Sam. Stupid, boring research."

"What  _stupid, boring research_  could you have filled up almost an entire legal pad with?" Sam asked as he flipped another couple of pages back. Dean didn't answer, and the chopping had also stopped again. Another moment passed, and his brother still didn't answer. He also hadn't turned back around to face him. That told Sam these were so much more than just boring notes. The uneasy feeling of paranoia he'd been pushing away took a shot of steroids and shot straight up from his gut and settled in his chest.

"Dean?"

"Okay, look—"

"Are these…" It was the nervous tint in the tone of Dean's voice that caused him to cut his brother off. Flipping another page back, Sam let his fingers trail down to the middle of the page. "Are these notes about...me? About this?" He asked in a quiet voice and gestured toward his bandaged eyes.

Dean was quiet again, and from what he could tell, hadn't moved at all. Sam's insides seized, and his mouth went dry. His brother's reaction to his questions fed directly into his anxiety. Swallowing, he demanded, "What are you researching, Dean? Because there is way too much here for it only to be how to get through the next couple of days."

Dean remained quiet, but at least finally moved. Whether he was facing him or not right then, Sam wasn't sure.

_"Dean."_

"Sammy, look. Um. You know how I always like to have a plan—"

"No, Dean." He cut in and his voice took on a steely edge, " _I_ always like to have a plan. You prefer the half-clocked method."

"Well, look—yeah. Okay? Yeah. I've done some research. Okay? So, sue me."

"Research on  _what_."

Sam waited and listened for his brother to continue. Dean drew in a big breath and then spit out, "On what to do if this isn't just a 5-day thing."

Sam sat and was quiet for a minute, and then he placed the notepad back on the table. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Why would you need to know that? Do you..." he took a steadying breath, "Do you know something that I don't?"

"What? No, Sam.  _NO_. It's just ... I just—"

"Then why all this research on what to do if I go blind?"

"It's just—It makes me feel better just to have all my bases covered. Okay?"

"This is... fifteen or more pages—this is all for only if I don't get my vision back?"

" _Yes_ , Sam. That's all it is."

"Dean." Sam paused, taking a breath, "This is an awful lot of information—not to mention time and effort—just to cover the very small chance that I'm blinded."

"Sammy, don't look too much into—"

"It IS just a small chance; right?"

Dean drew in a long breath and recited, "Out of the thirty percent for any type of possible complication... yes, Sam. It's a very, very small chance."

"Then why the novella?"

Dean sighed, "Exactly like I already told you. I wanted to cover my bas—"

Sam released a stressed laugh, "Dean, I know you, and I can't shake the feeling that you're trying to protect me from something... what aren't you telling me?"

"NOTHING, Sam."

"Look. I can handle it. Okay? Just, tell me."

There was the clatter of Dean chucking the knife on the counter, and then his brother hollered, "God! You're so  _fucking_  dense—how many other ways do you want me to say  _nothing_? Should I try it in Chinese?"

* * *

 

Bobby flicked off the lights to his storage building and then tugged on the heavy barn door to get it rolling. After closing it all up tight, he turned and headed toward the house. Climbing the steps to the back door, Bobby reached for the doorknob, but then stopped. Hearing the raised voices coming from the other side of the door, the thought rolled through his mind that he hadn't expected an argument between the boys for at least another day.

"I must be off my game," He muttered to himself and then turned the knob and opened the door. He stepped into the house and right into a Winchester standoff.

Bobby walked in as far as the fridge. Crossing his arms, he leaned against it while he observed the scene and tried to catch up. Dean was standing over by the sink and Sam was sitting at the table, and as best he could figure, Sam had found Dean's "worst case scenario" research and was completely taking it the wrong way. Although, Bobby could easily see how the kid might. Neither of them was listening to each other. They were arguing in circles, and it made him want to pop a knot on the both of them.

But, the more he listened, the more he noticed the fuel behind this particular dispute seemed to be less about who was right, and more about blowing off a lot of repressed steam. He was hearing a lot of fear and even more frustration being whipped back and forth between the brothers. They were using each other to release some of pressure. It was good for them to vent. But Bobby knew it would only be good up until a certain point. And, then that point was coming at them at warp speed.

Damn, he was off his game.

Sam pushed himself up to his feet after Dean had made a particularly snarky comment and rounded the table, making a b-line straight for his brother. Sight or not, Sam would have had Dean in his clutches in just a couple of steps—if someone hadn't forgotten to push in the kitchen chair he was about to walk straight into.

"Sam, STOP!" Shouted Dean. They both lunged forward to grab him before he fell, but really, there just wasn't any time. And then Sam and the chair went crashing to the floor.

"DAMN IT!" Sam hollered, frustrated and fed up over the entire situation, and clearly not thinking while slamming the fist of his dominant hand against the floor. Only problem with that was, his dominant hand was also his gimp hand and, turns out, the burns did not appreciate the abuse.

Dean dropped down and grabbed Sam's arms, "Hey. Are you okay?" But he didn't get an answer. Growling at the pain, Sam cradled his injured hand to his chest and rolled onto his back, kicking away the kitchen chair. It went skidding across the floor and ricocheted off the opposite wall, almost nailing Bobby on the way. Then Sam did something neither of them saw coming. In one quick movement, Sam reached back and yanked off the bandages covering his eyes.

Diving forward, Dean clamped his hand over his brother's eyes just as he was opening them. "Sam, what the hell!"

"Get off, Dean." Ordered Sam, and when his brother didn't budge, started pushing on him.

"Sam, stop! What the hell are you trying to do?"

Bobby stooped down next to the pair and touched Sam's arm, "Whoa, whoa; let's try to calm down a second…What's going on Sam?"

Struggling against his brother, Sam grunted, "I need a look. I just… I need to know if I can see  _anything_."

Dean shook his head, "Sorry, Sammy; can't let you do that just yet."

Sam exhaled like an angry bull, "I'm not asking, Dean. Move."

"Absolutely not."

"Damn it, Dean," Sam growled while pushing against him again. "Get off!"

"Sam, stop it!" Dean snapped. "You're not thinking clearly, and I'm not gonna to let you do something you might end up regretting."

Sam hit his brother in the chest, shouting, "I'm not  _fucking_  around!"

"Yeah? Well, neither am I, little brother. I'm not going to let you hurt yourself. Calm down and I'll help get your eyes covered back up."

"No."

Dean scoffed, "No? You want to stay here with my hand over your eyes all night?"

Sam's temper was on the rise and communication was shutting down. Hunter survival instincts started to get fired up and, in quick a blur of motion, Sam grabbed Dean's arm and pushed it back with both hands, nearly prying Dean's hand away from his face.

Leaning in, Dean increased his leverage by bracing his other hand against the back of Sam's head, shouting, "Bobby!"

But he was already at the light switch. He flicked it off and the kitchen was cloaked in the dim, blue light of dusk. Bobby moved back over by the sink. He stood there as his eyes adjusted to the low lighting and listened to the usual sounds that came from a scuffle between the boys.

It was the perfect illustrated demonstration of a battle of wills. It almost always was when Sam and Dean butted heads over something. Granted, things weren't usually this… hands-on, but he knew when to interfere, and when to just let the two figure it out for themselves. At times like this, it was his duty to make sure the idjits didn't kill each other.

If he needed to, Bobby was ready to jump in but, for now, he was content to let Dean take the lead on getting Sam to calm down. He was their best tool for the job. Yeah, it's like Sam had said a little bit ago—he'd practically raised both the boys, but  _no one_  knew them better than each other. He'd be right there in case Sam somehow overpowered his brother, but after what the kid had been through yesterday, he just couldn't see him being able to come out on top.

Turned out, Sam must have come to that same realization because, in a move Bobby never expected, he took a mean swing at his brother. His fist made a solid connection with the side of Dean's head, nearly causing him to break the hold he had on him.

Taking that as his cue, Bobby jumped in to help, but Dean had already hauled off to return the favor, cracking Sam right in the mouth. The back of Sam's head connected with the floor just enough to daze him, but it wasn't enough take the fight out of him.

"Dean! Take it easy!" Bobby shouted, bracing a hand against each of the boys.

"No." Dean growled, dropping down to the floor behind his brother as Sam tried ducking out from behind his hand again. "Not until he's finished. I'm not letting the jackass complicate the chance for a full recovery, just because he has a freakout—Knock it off, Sam! Chill out so I can talk to you."

Sam grunted in response and slammed his elbow into Dean's ribs. The air in Dean's lungs exited in a whoosh and, again, Sam just about pulled free. Keeping his hand pressed against Sam's eyes, Dean slipped him into a loose headlock.

Bobby frowned at the move, but he knew the kid wasn't an idiot. He knew Dean was well aware that Sam was still sore and recovering from yesterday's accident. He also knew Sam, and when the boy was hellbent over something, he didn't give up easily. That's not something Dean was willing to let his brother do. He wasn't going to let Sam win this one. He wasn't going to let the boy take a chance at screwing up his recovery. He just had to get his attention, so he could talk him down. Unfortunately, that meant taking measures that most people would consider extreme and uncalled for. But, those people never lived life like a Hunter's life, and, thank the heavens, they probably never had a childhood like the Winchester boys. Dean and Sam played by a completely different rulebook. And, in their rulebook, sometimes you had to put your injured little brother into a controlled headlock to get him to listen to reason.

Grabbing the arm around his neck, Sam bucked hard, roaring, "GET OFF ME!"

Pressing himself against Sam's back, Dean carefully increased the pressure around his neck and spoke into his ear, "Calm down. Quit fighting me, and I'll let you go."

But, Sam didn't back down, and Bobby was pretty sure Dean knew he wouldn't have just yet. The boy's been through an awful lot in the last day and a half. So much of his normal had been turned upside-down, bass-ackwards, and just plumb out of his control, that he'd reached a breaking point.

They both knew Sam wasn't thinking logically. He wasn't considering what the consequences might be if he tested the waters prematurely. He wasn't processing that Dean was trying to help him. In the same situation, an average person, who hadn't spent the majority of their life fighting to stay alive,  _probably_  would not react in the same way. But, the kid was frustrated, and scared, and there was no  _flight_  in Sam Winchester's fight-or-flight response. His body was supplying enough endorphins to damper down the injuries and his brain was in full fight-mode. And, there it was going to stay until they could get through to him, or he ran out of fight.

They were aiming for the former.

Sam growled in frustration and worked at wrenching Dean's arm from his neck as he tried to twist free. His back put a quick halt to that, though, and Sam roared again in frustration and anger. He kicked back, and the heel of his boot slammed into Dean's shin.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean growled, getting to his knees. Keeping the same hold on his brother, Dean hauled him off the floor just enough to let him know he wasn't playing around. Sam gasped and flailed as Dean held him against himself.

"Sammy, calm down." Dean tried again in a softer voice. He was cutting off just enough of his brother's air to sap his strength, but he still wouldn't give up. Sam squirmed, pulling against Dean's arm as he choked and coughed. "Sam, I swear, I will choke-you-the-fuck-out if I have to. You're not going to win this one, so Calm. Down."

"Easy, Sam..." Bobby took a knee in front of the boys and grabbed onto Sam's shoulders. He gave them a squeeze, saying, "Look, your brother's trying to look out for ya. He ain't tryin' to boss you around or piss you off. Calm down so you can tell us what you want." Bobby squeezed again, and held it for longer, "Take it easy."

"Sam, listen to Bobby. You're freaking the hell out. Relax and I'll let you go. C'mon, man. Just chill out."

Grimacing and breathing hard, Sam pulled on Dean's arm a couple of more times, but his movements were lacking the fire of just a few seconds ago. Bobby dropped his hands down to grab Sam's biceps and squeezed, "Easy, Sam. Just relax and we'll talk; okay?"

Sam heaved a few more strained, heavy breaths and then he dropped the hand pulling against Dean's arm into his lap. Bobby looked up at Dean, gave him a nod.

Craning his neck to look at his brother, Dean relaxed his hold, and asked, "You done?" There was a pause, and then Sam used his good hand to tap-out against the battered linoleum floor.

Shifting the arm around Sam's neck down to his chest, Dean held his brother against himself as he plopped down onto his rear, dragging Sam with him as he slumped back against the cabinet.

Bobby touched Sam's shoulder, "Sam; you okay?"

Still breathing heavy from the exertion, Sam took a moment, and then nodded from behind Dean's hand.

"You think we could get your eyes wrapped up and then we can talk about all this?"

Sam grimaced, but he didn't move to get up. In fact, with Dean's hand still covering his eyes, the kid just slouched against his brother and sighed, "Not yet. I just need... I need a few seconds. Just to find out if I can see anything at all. Just so I can have an idea of what I might be facing."

Even though Sam couldn't see it, Bobby shook his head at him, "Not a good idea, son. Your eyes still got some healing to do before we can have the big reveal."

Dean gave his brother's chest a few pats, "Bobby's Right, Sammy."

Fisting his good hand, Sam slammed it against the floor in frustration, huffing, "You don't  _understand_. You don't know what it is like, sitting in darkness for the better part of a week, wondering if you'll see again, or if the dark your new view of everything."

Bobby's heart ached for the kid. His guilt tried again to surface, but it wouldn't do them one bit of good, so he was quick to stomp it back down. He squeezed Sam's shoulder, saying, "You're right, Sam. I don't know. Neither Dean or me know what you're going through. But, I can take a pretty good guess as to how it might start wearing on your nerves and playing ping-pong with your sanity."

Bobby gave Sam's shoulder a stroke with his thumb, "And, that's okay. Ya know, it's okay to go a little off-kilter when you're going through something as shitty as having to wait it out for days to find out if you're gonna be able to see again. But, you gotta trust your brother and me to help you through it. Okay? It's what family does; am I right, Sam?"

Using the same phrase Sam had fed him out in the shop, Bobby had to admit, it was a little ironic for him to be saying it back to the kid not even an hour later. The term "full circle" started to dance around in his mind and the way Sam's expression changed, he could tell it had struck a chord with him also. Sam's frown deepened, but he nodded, and Bobby said, "Okay. Family looks out for family. That's our job. Part of that job is not letting you give into your fears and chance fooling up your odds for a full recovery. It ain't worth the risk."

Dean rubbed his hand against Sam's chest. Resting the side of his face against his brother's head, he said, "You hear what Bobby's saying, Sammy? You understand why you've gotta suck it up and just tough it out for two more days? Think how you would feel if you go in on Tuesday and find out things didn't go as well as they could have because you didn't follow the doc's orders. Think about that. Taking a few minutes to sneak a peek might worsen your vision for the rest of your life. It's not worth the gamble, Sam. You'd be furious with yourself and  _I'd_  never forgive myself for letting you do it in the first place." Dean gathered the material of Sam's shirt into a fist and gave it a little jolt, "You understand that me and Bobby are just looking out for you?"

Sam's throat worked for a bit, but then he nodded.

"And; look. You need something to help pass the time and keep your mind occupied? I'll do whatever you want to help you out. Okay? We could read one of your brainy books, or do the crossword in the paper, or the cryptoquotes puzzles. We can talk about some of the cases we've got on backorder, or go downtown and people watch—"

"People watch," Sam exhaled and shook his head, "How exactly you expect me to do that?"

Bobby looked at him like he was nuts, "Gotta admit, Dean. I'm wondering myself where you're going on that one..."

In the dim light of the kitchen, Bobby watched the kid roll his eyes, "It's the same as helping Sam read a book. We could park it on a bench and I can tell him about all the crazies; what they look like, and what they're doing."

Bobby made a face, "This something you boys do often?"

Sam shrugged and a crooked grin slipped onto his face, "Sometimes."

Bobby shook his head and huffed, "Idjits..." Both boys grinned at the remark and Bobby sighed, "Sam, you ready to get off the floor? I stay squatting down like this much longer and these old knees aren't going to be talking to me by morning."

Sam moved to get up and Dean pinned him against himself, asking, "Hey. I take my hand away, so you can get up, are you going to behave and keep your eyes closed?" Sam nodded, and Dean peered to the side to get a good look at his brother. "You promise?"

Sam sighed, "Yes."

Dean made a sound of disbelief and Sam asked, "What; you want me to pinkie-swear?"

Removing his hand from Sam's eyes, Dean watched his brother closely, "You know, I  _should_ make you, just for being a pain in the ass."

There was no heat in Dean's gripe and Sam breathed through a chuckle as he started moving to get to his feet. Bobby watched the kid struggle for a second and didn't bother asking if he needed help before taking him by his arm. Between him and Dean, they got him up off the floor.

Sam wavered a little once he was vertical and Dean stood close. Placing a hand on his back, Dean grabbed his arm. "Okay, dude?"

"Yeah," Sam's brow pinched, "Just got up too quickly, I think."

Bobby grabbed the nearest chair and turned it around and Dean positioned it behind his brother, saying, "Sit down for a second."

Sam let Dean help him ease into the chair, then he propped his elbow on the tabletop and dropped his head into his hand.

Bobby stood there and looked between the brothers, saying, "You know, I could ask you two what's going on, but I think I've got a pretty good idea on the subject." He paused and looked down at Sam, asking him, "Sam, you happened upon Dean's research. Didn't ya?" Sam didn't respond, and Bobby said, "Now you're sitting over there wondering if your brother and me are keeping something from you, huh?" Sam still didn't answer, but the tic in his jaw told him all he needed to know.

Bobby sighed, "Well, look, allow me to put your mind at ease. There is no new news. You know everything we do. Okay? Dean ain't holding onto any secrets and he's not trying to pull one over on you. He got spooked, okay? He's trying to do right by you. He's taking the time to make sure all his ducks are in order so, no matter what happens, he's going to have answers and a plan of attack. For the love of Mike; your brother actually takes the time to research and think through a solid plan for once, don't crucify him for it! Back him up, and maybe we'll be lucky enough that he'll learn something and do it again when it comes to hunting."

"Hey..." Dean piped up and Bobby swung around to face him, "And you..."

Bobby pointed a finger at Dean, "Were you just so wrapped up in defending yourself, that you really couldn't understand  _why_  your brother might have been acting a tad irrationally? Was Sam being closed-minded and digging his heels in instead of listening? Yeah, he probably was." Bobby answered for Dean. He continued and gestured at Sam, "But, you already know the stress and uncertainty your brother is facing. I have no doubt that you can see how he's struggling with it. If you would have taken a second and managed to  _try_ and see things from his perspective, maybe you would have picked up on all that, because from where I was standing when I came in, I gotta tell ya, it was pretty damn obvious."

Bobby stopped and looked between the boys for a moment. Sam hadn't moved, still sitting at the table with his head in his hand. And, Dean was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed across his chest. He'd been staring at the floor while Bobby was laying into the two of them, but in the end, he raised his eyes to look at Sam.

Figuring he's said all that needed to be said, Bobby sighed. "I'm gonna grab a shower. The two of you get Sam's eyes wrapped back up and then get the damn dinner finished. After dinner, Dean... you're going to wash the dishes." Bobby grabbed a dish towel from the handle of the stove and pressed it into Sam's chest. The kid was surprised, but reflex had him grabbing it from his hand. Bobby told him, "You get to dry."

Turning away from the boys, Bobby marched out of the kitchen, grumbling to himself, and muttered, "I'm getting too old for this shit."

* * *

 

Paging through one of his research books, Bobby sat in his study, sipping his after-dinner whiskey while watching the local news. The sound of clanking dishes and silverware mingled with the easy-going conversation within the kitchen, and he kicked back in his chair and sighed, thinking he might just be starting to relax for the first time in a few days.

He was watching a snippet of a new park that just opened in Sioux Falls. They'd been working on it for damn near two years. Opening day for the multi-million-dollar park had drawn in crowds by the thousands. It was big news, boasting how it was the only park in the nation to feature one attraction or another. But, Bobby wasnt listening. Instead, he was thinking to himself how he should go over his research on that piece of land one more time. Just to make double-sure it would be safe for the families and individuals that would be stomping around all over the grounds.

A glass shattered in the sink, and his attention snapped to the two in the kitchen just in time for Sam to call out, "Sorry, Bobby..."

He was about to tell the kid not to worry about it when Dean started hollering about Sam giving him a heart attack, and then the boy started batting his brother away, asking, "What the hell are you doing, Sam? Back out-of-the-way!"

Bobby watched as Dean bodily moved his brother over a step, and away from the sink. Sam had told Dean to relax, saying something about picking up the glass and Dean looked back at him, saying, "You can't even  _see_  where you're grabbing; do you WANT a laceration?"

"Seriously?" Sam asked, "Would you calm down, already? It's not much different from reaching for a knife in a sink full of soapy water."

To which, Dean screeched, "Who puts a bunch of knives into a sink of soapy water?"

"I do."

Dean shot a look at his brother, "That's crazy. Why would you do that? Wash them one at a time like a normal person."

"It's not crazy if you know  _how_ to find them under the bubbles."

"Okay, Sam, I'm biting: How do you find them under the bubbles?"

Sam smirked, "Carefully."

Bobby shook his head at the kitchen theatrics, and then tuned it out. Winchester bickering was nothing new in his house. In fact, things would be very wrong if he didn't hear them griping at each other at odd intervals throughout the day. It was part of the ambiance. Taking another sip from his whiskey, he grabbed his planner. Half-listening to Sam and Dean argue over proper dish-washing protocols, Bobby started making notes about looking deeper into the history of the land in that new park.

**_TBC_ **


	8. Chapter 8

Sam sat back and breathed in a deeply. Out in the yard, helping Bobby to finish up on the transmission autopsy from yesterday, he rolled his shoulders against a tightness that had been creeping up on him for the last half hour. It was somewhere around three in the afternoon and they'd been at it for close to four hours straight.

Earlier, Sam and Dean had been seated across from each other at the kitchen table with all of their firearms spread out before them on an old towel. Sam had been scrubbing the short barrel of one of the sawed-offs when Bobby had come in, asking Sam if he wanted to lend a hand again on that transmission. He'd been doubtful over how much help he'd actually be, but that didn't stop him from saying yes. Dean made a side comment about being ditched like a disposable prom date but then shooed him out the door telling him,  _"Cleaning the guns, you got; auto mechanics, you need all the practice you can get."_

When they'd gotten out there, Bobby had told him how he'd put the transmission on a winch and hauled it outside, declaring it was too nice of a day to be holed up in the storage shed.

_He hadn't been wrong,_  Sam thought to himself as he lifted his face toward the sun. Yesterday's wind had passed, and while the air was cool and crisp, it was the perfect temperature to be working outside. Warm enough to work up a light sweat, but brisk enough that you never got hot. The swaying breeze had an earthiness to it that made him think of oranges and browns. His thoughts drifted to sunbeams behind bright red leaves, seed pods from sycamore trees spinning in the wind, and the blur of golden cornfields whizzing by as the Impala sped down the road.

It was strange, as much as he hated Halloween— _hated_ Halloween—Autumn was still his favorite season. He loved the smell of burning leaves and the fog that often hung around in the early morning. He loved the rain and the crunch of the grass after a hard freeze. He loved the way the steam came off his coffee in wisps, curling in the air and warming his nose as he drank. He loved crab apples on the ground and pullovers and warm apple cider... and, even though he'd never admit it to Dean, he still loved jumping into a huge pile of leaves. There were so many things about the season that made his heart smile, and if it turned out that he didn't get his sight back, he was resigned to the fact that he would have to start seeing things through his brother's eyes. Dean would become an expert in descriptive narration, using his words to show him every little thing in a way that he could envision it. If that happened, Sam knew Dean would be there to explain every fine detail he asked for. Sam also knew he'd probably drive his brother mad by time Thanksgiving rolled around.

The sound of a vehicle moving through the salvage yard preceded a clipped toot of its horn, and Sam faced Bobby, asking, "Rufus?"

There was the clank of a tool and then a weary groan as Bobby stood up straight. "Yeah, that's him."

Sam listened again, and asked, "What's he driving?"

He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard Bobby snort with a restrained laugh just before he answered, "A Yugo 45."

"Yugo... that tiny, pale-yellow junker?"

"That'd be the one."

"Why's he driving that?"

"He asked for a loner and I handed him the keys."

"Bobby," Sam grinned, "you've got about a dozen other loaners better than that crap car. Why'd you stick him with that one?"

Rufus pulled to a stop beside them, and Bobby chuckled, "Because seeing him drive that thing makes me happy."

Sam laughed, shaking his head.

The Yugo's engine turned off and then Rufus slammed the car door. Gravel crunched under the hunter's boots as he walked over, griping, "Bobby, that's the worst damn car I've even driven. Going downhill, the hunk of junk  _still_  can't break fifty!"

Bobby responded with, "Better than walking everywhere, ain't it?"

"Now, I don't know on that one," Rufus said. "Going up one hill, I thought I was going to have to get out and start pushing."

Bobby and Sam laughed. It was quiet for a bit, then Rufus said, "Sam, how you doin?"

He shrugged, "Don't really know yet."

Rufus grunted. "When do the bandages come off?"

"Tomorrow."

"Your brother kill the imbecile that caused the whole mess?"

Sam grinned, "No. And, don't give him any ideas, either."

"Ha!" The short outburst was almost instant, then Rufus added, "I guarantee you that boy's already got plenty of ideas rolling around in that head of his. It's when he takes his time to pick one, that you know how 'much' he's thinking about it."

Sam frowned, and Bobby piped up, "You gonna stand there running your yap all afternoon, or are we going to fix what you screwed up?"

"What 'I' screwed up? Bobby, only thing I screwed up was using the parts you salvaged from some Ford older than that X-rated Betty Boop coffee mug you got."

"Are you out of your gourd?" Bobby squawked. "I ain't never  _had_ a Betty Boop mug."

Rufus laughed, "Yeah, you say that in front of the kid, but we both know that you got that thing squirreled away in the back of one of your cupboards."

Sam laughed, "Look, I'm going to go help Dean finish with the weapons."

He stood up and Bobby asked, "You good to go it on your own?"

Sam nodded, "Yeah, Bobby. I've got it mapped out up here," he said, using a finger to tap the side of his head.

"All right, then."

Sam caught a hint of apprehension in the hunter's reply, and he was grateful Bobby let him go without making a fuss. He was forty-five paces closer to the house when Bobby called back out to him.

"Hey, Sam!" He stopped and turned, and Bobby shouted, "Figure out what you two want for supper; won't be more than an hour or so and I'll be finished up here."

Sam raised a hand in acknowledgement and then turned back around and resumed counting. Yesterday, he'd started paying attention to how many steps there were between things. The couch to the table; the kitchen to the bathroom; the bedroom to the stairs; and, this morning, the house to the car lift in the yard. It made getting around easier, and as long as no one left things like boots and duffels—or kitchen chairs—in the main path, he was starting to make it from point A to point B without much trouble.

Right now, he knew he had thirty more to go before he would turn ninety degrees to his left. After that, it was eighty-seven paces before he'd come to the steps at the back porch. He was just about to turn, when the sound of his brother's colt brought him to a stop. It was coming from the direction of Bobby's outdoor firing range. Sam hadn't been out there since before the accident, but he'd been out there plenty of times in the past that he had the confidence to be adventurous, and started to heading that way.

Following the report of his brother's gun, Sam stopped every time Dean stopped firing. He was familiar with the layout of the shooting field, but when Dean stopped, it was disorienting the way the gun's echo bounced off nearby structures and the woods in the distance. Sam could picture the table made out of plywood stacked on top of old pallets. He knew from the feel of the sun on his back, and the way the table faced, that he'd be coming up on Dean's five o'clock. Still, for safety's sake, Sam waited until the gunshots rang out again so he could be certain of his path.

Dean stopped firing again, probably to swap out magazines. Sam was standing there waiting for him to start up again, but instead, he heard the sound of dead grass crunching beneath his brother's boots. A few more steps, and a hand touched his arm.

"Hey, Sammy."

"Clean your gun so you could take it shooting?" Sam asked with a grin.

Dean's hand slipped from Sam's arm to the back of his shoulder and Sam fell into step with him as he answered, "As much fun as that is, not this time. I noticed the sights have been a little off. Came out here to get it adjusted."

Dean led Sam back to where he was shooting. They came to a stop and the rough, weathered sheet of old plywood met his jeans and rubbed against his legs. "You get it figured out?"

"Well," Dean paused, "blew the head off two vamps and one tooth fairy—I'd say so."

Sam turned toward Dean in surprise. "Bobby's got a tooth fairy out there now?"

"Yeah, dude." Sam could hear Dean's smile, "Frilly, pink tutu and everything."

Sam imagined the life-sized target and grinned. He listened to Dean load a magazine, then his hand was turned and a pair of foam earplugs dropped into his palm. Twisting a plug, he stuck it in his ear, asking, "You got some in, too?"

His brother's response was a ridiculous:  _"WHAT?"_

It was just a little over the top and Sam smirked, "Cute."

"That's what all the ladies say, Sammy." Again, he could hear Dean smile. Then his brother answered with a laborious, "Yes, mom."

"Good boy." Sam got the other earplug into place. He heard Dean release the slide, and then his brother shouted, "Fire in the hole!"

It wasn't a standard practice for them by any means, but if Dean was in a particular mood, he'd been known to shout out the unnecessary warning from time to time. Usually earning a dramatic eyeroll from Bobby with a side-comment of:  _idjit._ This time, though, Sam was pretty sure Dean had shouted it for his benefit, to let him know he was beginning to fire, and to make sure he didn't startle him.

Even with the earplugs, shotguns and handguns were loud, and Dean's Colt held no exceptions. Wincing Sam covered his bad ear and thought about how it was a freaking miracle that they hadn't gone deaf by now. As important as ear protection is around firearms, on hunts it was hardly pragmatic. Hunts required hearing just as much as sight.

Dean stopped shooting and the sharp, metallic scent of sulfur hung between them. Speaking louder to be heard over the earplugs, Sam asked him, "What's your range?"

"Ah," his brother took a breath and released the empty magazine, "after getting it sighted, been experimenting between 25 and 40 yards."

"How'd you do?" Sam wondered. Anything under 30 yards and he probably wouldn't have even asked. His brother was an exceptional marksman. But most times, handgun accuracy for civilians beyond 25 yards starts to get dodgy. For them, that magic number was closer to 30 yards. Hitting a bullseye at 40 yards? It happens, but the conditions had to be just right. And, it helps if you didn't have coffee yet.

"I'm happy with it." Dean replied. Then he added, "A steadier hand would have helped, but I had a cup of joe about an hour ago."  _—See?_

And then Dean grabbed his wrist said, "Here." The handgrip to his Taurus slipped into his shooting hand. Gripping it was reflex. Holding it, he extended a frown down at the firearm. Flexing his hand around the grip, his thumb stroked over the smooth pearl handle. Holding onto his gun felt like an extension of his hand. The weight of it was a comfort. It was protection, and defense, and holding it made him feel a little more complete.

"Do you two want some time alone?"

Sam's thoughts came to a halt as his mind stuttered over the question. A little disconnected, he was quiet for a beat, and then turned to face his brother, asking, "What?"

"Are you going to stand there fondling the gun, or are you going to shoot it?"

Sam hesitated to answer. Dean was loading up fresh rounds for the Colt, and Sam asked, "What gave you the idea to bring out my gun?"

"Figured I'd check out the sights on yours, also—you're welcome."

"Right. And, now you want me to shoot targets?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

There was a pause, and then Dean answered, "Morbid curiosity?"

Sam grinned. "Is it loaded already?"

Dean huffed, "I ain't got time for that." A box of rounds jingled as they plopped down on the table by his hand. "You want to shoot, you can load your own gun."

Sam reached down for the box. Moving it in front of him, he hesitated, but then determination overrode his uncertainty and he released the gun's magazine. It dropped into his left hand and he set the gun down. Opening the box of 9mm rounds, he chose one, found the flat end, and started sliding the bullets into the holder.

He heard Dean pop a magazine back into the Colt and then gave him a heads up, that time by shouting: "FOUR!"

Dean had spent his sixth shot as Sam was slapping his magazine into place. His brother took his final shot and Sam racked his slide. There was silence, and Sam asked, "You done?"

"It's all you."

"The field is clear?"

"No one out here but you and me."

Sam took a deep breath and released the safety.

Dean moved to stand directly behind him. His brother was close enough to that his chest brushed against Sam's back as he looked over his shoulder. It helped him to relax a little. "Okay...," Dean spoke just behind his left ear, "Let's start with the werewolf. Bobby's probably had that one out there the longest; 5 yards at your 2 o'clock."

Sam raised his gun, taking aim at where he thought the target might be. He made a minor adjustment and then squeezed the trigger.

Even when you're doing everything right, there was always the chance that something might go wrong while operating a firearm. Shooting at a distance of only 5 yards, it was still possible to get nailed by a stray piece of shrapnel. Or, if it was that one-in-a-million shot that hit a nail just right, there was the possibility of the bullet ricocheting back toward you. So, when he heard Dean hiss just after he'd taken the shot, he got concerned, asking, "What?"

Dean didn't answer.

Sam lowered the weapon and turned a step toward his brother, demanding, "Dean,  _what?"_

There was a soft snort, then a brief chuckle, and then his brother's belly laughs danced around his ears.

Confused, Sam frowned and turned to face his brother full-on. He heard Dean's high-pitched sigh and could imagine him wiping the heel of his hand across an eye. "Well," his brother finally said. "If that fugly wasn't junkless before, he definitely is now."

Sam chuckled, shaking his head and turned back around. "Okay, so...," grinning, he cleared his throat, "aiming higher..."

"Yes, higher would be good."

Taking a breath, Sam centered himself and then squeezed the trigger.

"Not bad; you're aim is a little  _too_ high."

Sam readjusted and shot off another round.

"Better, but you over corrected. Come back a little." He fired again and Dean said, "High again at 3 o'clock."

Rolling his shoulders, Sam visualized the length of the field. He saw the target pop up right where it has sat for close to seven years: 5 yards away at his 2 o'clock. He took aim, and fired.

"Yahtzee!" Dean shouted and Sam smiled.

"Okay...," Dean said and Sam pictured him running a hand over his mouth as he chose another target. "Okay, let's do the shapeshifter; 5 yards again, 9 o'clock."

Swinging the gun to his 9 o'clock, Sam concentrated at keeping it aimed for the same distance. He visualized the target and squeezed the trigger.

"Directionally, you're lined up pretty good, but you made a divot about half a yard in front of the target."

Sam adjusted his aim and tried again.

"Got it in the shoulder."

He readjusted and fired.

"Bullseye—nice! Wraith; 7 yards, 12 o'clock." Sam fired, and Dean smacked him on the shoulder. "Yeah! Nailed that SOB! Jefferson Starship; 7 yards again, 1 o'clock."

Sam took the shot and Dean hollered, "Yeah, Sammy! Soul eater—"

"Wait." Sam said, lowering the handgun, "Where's the tooth fairy?"

Dean laughed, "The man wants to kill a tooth fairy... Okay, Garth, tooth fairy; 15 yards, 8 o'clock."

Sam calculated the variance in distance between the one he just nailed and the tooth fairy. Using a little math that incorporated triangular measurements and degree percentages, he brought his aim around. Pulling in a deep breath, he held onto it, and then exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger.

His brother was silent for a second before shouting, "Oh my God, he got it! Holy shit, no way!"

Sam lowered his weapon and faced his brother again. "Really?"

"Yeah, really!" Dean grabbed the back of his neck and gave it a gentle tug. "—looks like you got him in the left boob." Sam tipped his head back and laughed. Dean said, "It's not a headshot, but it's a  _damn_  good shot for someone who wasn't looking."

Hearing the pride in his brother's voice made his heart swell and he had the thought that this might be the most fun they'd had in a while. And there was also the other night as they recalled their dad's cooking skills. As crazy as it was, it seemed like the shitty situation that was trying to suck the life out of him, and had them both stressed to the max, was also drawing them closer.

"Okay. Soul eater." Sam said. Taking aim again he waited for Dean's direction, but Dean's palm landed over his gripping hand and lowered it back down. He was about to question the motion, but then he heard the grass crunching beneath a familiar gait.

"Well, this is just the best idea you two idjits have cooked up yet—give the blindfolded guy a gun and take him shooting."

Sam grinned, "Hey, Bobby."

"Hey, yourself."

Sam's grin spread into a toothy smile. Bobby's response to him and their choice of recreational activities might sound gruff and pissy, but they both knew better.

"Well?" The grumpy hunter asked as he came up on Sam's other side. "He any good?"

_TBC_


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are at the end of the story. This is the final chapter and at just over 9,500 words, it's a doozy. Thanks for putting up with the delays in updates and for staying on board for the entire ride.
> 
> So, go to the bathroom, make a snack and have a drink nearby before you settle in to read the conclusion of Flash Fire. I thoroughly hope you enjoy it.
> 
> -Itzagoodthing

 

 

"Yo, Bobby!" Dean shouted upstairs while pocketing his wallet. "Bobby, I'm headed out to go pick up the order."

Dean heard the toilet flush and then the floorboards on the second story started creaking toward the stairs. Bobby popped out from around the corner. Rubbing a hand towel over his arms, he looked down at him, "What'd you boys decide on?"

Taking a second to close out his screen, Dean pocketed his cellphone and looked up the stairs. "Chinese."

"Chinese, huh?"

Dean took in the frown of uncertainty that formed on the old man's face and asked, "I thought you loved Chinese."

"I do." Bobby answered and started down the stairs. "It just doesn't love me back."

Turning toward the kitchen, Dean grinned. "Got it; stop off and pick up some of the pink stuff for dessert." He looked out the screen door and saw his brother leaning up against the side of the car. Hands stuffed into his pockets, Sam had his face turned into the breeze. Dean stopped and called back, "Guess Sam's with me. Be back in 30."

Bobby's acknowledgment got chopped in half by the slamming screen door as Dean trotted down the steps. Taking long strides to his car, he sifted through his keys. Picking out the square one, he shot a glance toward his brother, asking, "Ready, Sam?"

"Yep." Sam replied and opened his door. Keeping a hand on the top of the car, he eased himself inside. Dean stood by, waiting to see if he'd need a hand reaching for the door. Sam was getting around a lot better than he did even just a day ago, but his back was still out of whack and his movements remained stiff. Even so, it looked like he had things under control, so Dean left him to it.

Rounding the back of the car, Sam's door closed just as Dean was opening his. He slipped in past the steering wheel and cranked the engine. Baby roared to life with a loud growl and then eased into a more chilled rumble. The power of her engine pulsated, vibrating throughout her frame, making his insides quiver just a little bit.

Sam placed his hand on the seat, and then he smiled. Which, of course, made Dean smile. Popping her into reverse, Dean swung the car around and then they were making their way down Bobby's long drive.

About ten minutes down the road, Dean was chatting away about an article he'd read to Sam earlier in the day. "After you're all healed up, I was thinking of heading out to Arizona to check out that mountain where people keep coming up missing."

"You mean, as long as everything goes well tomorrow."

"I mean  _when_  everything goes well tomorrow." He looked over at Sam, "I've got good feelings about this, Sammy. Big Brother Radar has been telling me that everything is going to be fine."

Sam turned more to face him with a very amused grin in place, "Big Brother Radar?"

"Well, yeah."

"Since when have you had Big Brother Radar?"

Not even caring that Sam wouldn't see it, Dean shot him a look that said he just asked a ridiculous question, "Um, excuse me. When  _haven't_  I had it?" He looked at the road and then back at his brother. "As far as you're concerned, I've  _always_  had it. It came as a package-deal with you."

Sam nodded and smiled, "Ah. I see."

Dean stopped at an empty intersection, and looked both ways, "What, you think I'm kidding?"

Sam's grin widened as he put up his hands in surrender, "No, I'm absolutely sure you think you have Big Brother Radar."

Dean gave him a double take, " _Think?_ Sammy, it's a fact."

Sam chuckled, "I'm not saying it's—"

"I knew that ninth-grade floozy was going to be trouble for you."

Now it was Sam's turn to shell out a ridiculous look, "Ninth-grade floozy?"

"Yeah, that chick that played you to get to your friend, that basketball dude... Man, I knew she was trouble the first time you walked out of the school with her. Crap, what was her name? Mandy... Misty..." Dean looked over at Sam and was unencouraged by the blank expression on his brother's face. "C'mon, Sam. Her last name sounded like some type of food..."

Sam frowned, "Are you talking about Mindy Graham?"

"Mindy Graham! That's the little trollop."

"Huh," Sam sat back in the seat, "I'd forgotten all about her."

"Yeah, well, I'm telling ya, Big Brother Radar would start singing like freaking Mariah Carey every time I saw you two together."

Sam smirked, "She dumped me for Troy Hastings."

"Yeah, I know." Dean shook his head, "I was working as a carhop at some 50's throwback diner when I saw her in Troy's car." Steering around a corner, he smirked, "I  _may_  have accidentally spilled a tray of milkshakes and burgers through her window."

Sam turned to face him, his mouth hanging open for a beat before he said, "You  _what?"_

"Hey, carrying food around on roller skates is tricky. You know, especially since I think they were parked right by that one big crack in the pavement..."

"Uh huh."

Dean shrugged, "Anyway, like I was saying, I knew right from the start she was bad news. Big Brother Radar. Hey, there was also the time it went off when we were on that hunt in the Adirondacks looking for that shack Dad tracked a witches' coven to. Remember? Dad wanted us to split up. He went east, and he wanted us to go south. You were walking just ahead of me and we were coming up on a ridge—" Dean was steering the car around a tight S-curve when Sam reached out into the middle of his conversation and grabbed his arm.

Dean stopped talking and looked over. "What's wrong with you?" He asked after seeing Sam holding his bandaged hand in a loose fist and had it pressed his mouth. Dean frowned, "You need me to pull over?"

Sam shook his head, "Just—" he swallowed and flashed Dean a quick smile— "take it a little easier on the curves?"

"Crap. Sorry," replied Dean. He hadn't even thought of how sharp curves and blindfolds didn't always have the best of outcomes. Unless, you were looking to get carsick. If you were, well, then they were just about your best combination. Plus, it didn't help that the more he talked, the faster he tended to drive. Backing off the accelerator, Dean decided to stow the rest of his conversation for later and focused on driving smoother.

Slowing down to look for an open spot near the restaurant, Dean slid into an available space at the curb, right across the street. Killing the engine, he glanced over at Sam and asked if he was ready.

Sam turned toward him, "Are you serious?"

"What?"

"I don't think trying to juggle bags of food while helping me is a great idea. Kind of seems like a disaster waiting to happen. I'll just wait here."

Dean frowned. Chewing on his lip while he thought, he looked at Sam. He didn't like the idea of leaving his injured, unseeing little brother alone. But Sam had a good point. Besides, if it were him that had his eyes bandaged up and walked with a slight limp, Dean knew he wouldn't want to wander around in public either, unless it was absolutely necessary.

"Yeah, okay," replied Dean. He yanked the keys out of the ignition and reached forward, opening the glove box. He dug around for a bit and then pulled out one of their spare phones. He powered it on and, surprised to see it had a little over half its battery remaining, he placed it in his brother's hand.

Sam's brows drew together, "What's this for?"

"Do you have your phone on you?"

Sam fixed him with a wry expression, "Ah. No..."

Dean looked his brother over. "All right, well; just in case you need something."

Sam grinned, "Dean. You're leaving to pick up a takeout order. You're not shopping for groceries for the week. I think I'll be fine out here by myself for the few minutes you'll be gone."

"Sammy, just humor me, okay?"

Sighing in exasperation, Sam thumped his head against the window.

"Good; now, look—"

Sam slowly turned to face Dean, an uneven smile playing on his lips.

Dean winced, and then waved it off, "Dude, you know what I mean." He took the phone from Sam, flipped it open, and placed it back in his hand, "There's a bump on the 5-key."

Sam sighed again, cutting him off, "Yes, Dean. I know about the homing key."

"O _-kay_ , your royal snippiness. Excuse me for making sure you don't call friggin India by accident."

Sam flipped the phone closed and leaned his head back against the window again. "Whatever; get out of here."

Dean grinned and smacked his brother on the arm, "Back in five."

Turns out it was closer to fifteen minutes because the restaurant had messed up part of their order. Dean had called Sam, asking him if he wanted to wait since it was something he had ordered, or if he just wanted to share what Dean got. After finding out it would take less than ten minutes for the restaurant to make it, Sam decided to go ahead and wait. Dean relayed the message to the hostess, and then helpfully pointed out to Sam how it was a good thing he'd given him the phone.

Sam had hung up on him.

Carrying two bags of food and a couple of 2-liters of soda, Dean jogged across the street and yanked open the back door. He was about to put the bags of Chinese food in their trusty green cooler, when he opened the lid and was met by some disgusting, unrecognizable mass of what used to be food inside of a clear plastic bag. Whatever it was supposed to be, he had no clue, but it was grey and green and very hairy. He started griping over whose turn it was to clean out the cooler last. He'd dropped the bag of yuck in a stray shopping bag, had gotten both bags of take-out situated in the cooler, the 2-liters tucked into the footwell, and had shut the lid before he'd clued in to the fact that Sam had yet to say anything about the situation.

Dean looked up and found Sam with his face buried in his hand, his posture was tense, and he was gripping his knee.

"Sam? You okay?"

His question was answered with a tight nod.

Dean frowned, ducked out of the back, and then slid in behind the wheel. Gripping the keys in his hand, he looked over at his brother and asked, "You feel sick again?"

Sam shook his head.

That was twice now that Sam responded without speaking and Mariah Carey started hitting the high notes. He turned in his seat and put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Seriously, man. If you still feel crummy from the drive, we can just sit here for a little bit. There's no rush to get back."

Sam swallowed and breathed, "I'm not sick."

Dean's frown deepened, "You hurting?"

There was a slight hesitation and then Sam nodded.

"Eyes or back?" Dean asked, going straight for the two things that had given Sam the most trouble since the explosion.

"Ah—" Sam flashed a smirk that had zero humor behind it. "It's not my back..."

Dean cursed. Jamming the key into the ignition, he gave it a hard crank. Looking over his shoulder for traffic, he swung the car out into the street, muttering, "I  _knew_  I should have freaking grabbed the drops before we left." He stole a glance at his brother, "How long has it been coming on?"

"Um…" Sam leaned his head back and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, "started up sometime while you were in the restaurant."

"Damn it, Sam! That's why I gave you the freaking phone. Why the hell didn't you say something?" Dean asked, dividing his attention between the road and his brother. "Sam?"

His brother winced and swallowed, and then said, "Felt different; last couple of times hadn't been so bad. Seemed like it was starting to fade away like the last—"

The only street light in town turned red while he wasn't looking, and Dean stomped on the breaks, cursing for the second time in as many minutes. Sam didn't have time to anticipate their sudden stop and Dean threw out the mom-arm as inertia pitched his brother toward the dash. He managed to slow Sam's momentum, but his good hand still slammed against the dashboard as he braced himself with a muffled grunt.

"Sorry, Sammy." Dean said and looked over at his brother again. Sam laid his head back against the window with a groan, but he never dropped the hand he was holding to his face. Dean looked at the light and then back over at Sam, "How bad? Do we need to have Bobby meet us half way?"

Sam slouched down in the seat a little, "I don't know. I don't think so. It started up like the last couple, you know?" Dean shot a look over at his brother. Sam frowned, "It really wasn't that bad at first."

"But, now it's suddenly a fan of Emeril and wants to kick it up a notch?"

"Basically."

Dean repeated his question, "So, do I need to have Bobby meet us?"

A honk from the car behind let Dean know the light had changed. He brought his focus back to the road and accelerated, driving as fast as he dared, without drawing unwanted attention from the small-town cops. Still waiting for an answer, he shot a look back over toward the passenger seat. "Sam?"

"I…," Sam squirmed in the seat and leaned against the door. "I don't think so? I don't know."

Dean looked at his brother a few times and if the last couple days were anything to go by, he figured a little advance planning couldn't hurt. Just in the brief time Dean's been in the car, it's seemed like the pain had already gotten worse. Maybe it was because Dean was making Sam talk and disrupting his concentration on riding it out. It was possible, but if things continued to escalate, Dean wanted to be prepared.

Digging his phone out from his back pocket, Dean dialed and then pressed it against his ear. He kept shooting a glance over at his brother as the line rang. Somewhere around the eighth ring, Sam leaned forward again, and this time held his face in both his hands. Dean caught a soft gasp and, cursing for a third time, he ended the call and dialed a different number.

Sam's breathing took a pained turn for the worse as Dean turned onto a back road, and Baby opened up. He was out of city limits and the back roads were only monitored by an understaffed Sheriff's department, meaning he didn't have to worry about getting pulled over for speeding. Dean's foot pressed down on the accelerator and he kept an eye on Sam while the needle on Baby's speedometer crept toward seventy.

The trilling in his ear continued and Sam's hand reached out, found his arm, and latched on. The material of his coat twisted in his brother's fist as he pressed back into the seat and swallowed a moan. Dean gripped the phone tighter. "C'mon…," he grumbled, and was just about to hang up and try the first number again, but then there was a click as the line picked up. He didn't even wait for a greeting, "Bobby. Thank God. Where are you? Are you at the house?"

Sam's breathing could be best described as panting, and Dean held his breath as he waited for Bobby's answer. He closed his eyes briefly in relief, "Okay, listen. Need you to make up a dark room and have Sam's drops ready to fire… yeah, it was a little tricky this time; kind of sneaked up on him." Dean looked over at Sam again, watching him as he started to bend forward again, pressing both hands against his face. His pain was palatable, and Dean forced the accelerator down a little further.

Bobby said something about heading their way to meet up with them, and it brought Dean back to their conversation. "What? No. We're only about five minutes out, and I'm not sure how we'd make the car dark enough to—" Dean cut off when a dog wandered out onto the road. Dropping his phone to grab the wheel, he swerved. Sam grabbed onto his arm again to steady himself as Dean steered the car back into his lane.

"Hold on, Sammy. We're almost there. Bobby's going to have everything ready for us. Just hang in there, man." He could see Bobby's driveway up ahead and didn't waste too much effort on braking. Palming the steering wheel with one hand, he pressed a hand to Sam's chest, holding him steady as he slid the car into the driveway.

The house was just coming into view when he saw Bobby rushing toward them from the garage area. Something was bundled under his arm and he was waving him down. Dean agonized over what to do for a second. All he wanted was to get Sam inside, but he trusted the man, and his gut told him to listen.

A cloud of dust bloomed around the car as Dean brought it to a skidding stop. Bobby was coming up to his door as he opened it and the man looked in, gave Sam a glance, but then he pushed against Dean's arm when he started to get out of the car.

"Bobby; what—" The bottle of eye drops pressed into his hand and Bobby gave him a nod, saying, "Just stay put." Dean let him close the door again and watched as Bobby unfurled Baby's cover and began to throw it over the car.

Dean smiled; the man was a genius.

Years back, when he had purchased the cover, Dean hadn't spared any cost. It only took one night in southern Oklahoma, riding out back to back tornado warnings, and more than one hail storm, that had convinced Dean to upgrade the cover that had always been Baby's since before he could remember. Her new cover was made of double-thick canvas, rated to withstand up to quarter-sized hail, and considering the gloomy autumn evening, it would make her plenty dark on the inside for Sam's eyes. Plus, it would only take Bobby a few seconds to get the windows covered, and his method was a lot faster than dragging a limping little brother up the steps and into the house.

Sam started fumbling for the door handle and Dean grabbed his shoulder, saying, "Leave it shut, Sam. We're going to do the drops in the car."

Squirming beside him, Sam groaned, "Dean, what…"

"Just another second, Sammy." Dean looked at his brother and then over his shoulder, "Bobby's almost done. We're doing the drops right here." He said again and looked back at Sam. "There's not going to be any room for me to lean over you if you're sitting up. Go ahead and move onto your back."

Tipping the steering column up to give Sam more room, Dean took his brother by the shoulder and started easing him down. They were doing well until the side of Sam's face brushed against his stomach and Sam recoiled, like he was surprised Dean was still sitting there. He's not sure what his brother might have been thinking, but it's not as if there were many other places for Dean to relocate.

Sam moved to sit back up and managed to bump his forehead against the bottom of the steering wheel. "Sammy, jeez!" Dean bitched. "Would you just lay back already."

To which, Sam gritted out, "I'm not laying in your lap, Dean."

"Oh, come off it, Sam. It's not like I'm asking you to buy me dinner first. It's not very spacious in here, and I won't have enough room to lean over you if you're sitting up. So, unless you're into the sensation of smoldering needles being shoved into the backs of your eyes, just lay your ass down so we can get on with it."

Sam grumbled something in reply, but he didn't put up any more of a fight.

"Boys okay in there?"

Scooting back against the seat to give Sam as much room as possible, Dean shot a glance toward his window. "Yeah, Bobby," he replied, guiding Sam's head past the steering wheel again. "Hey, you mind running in the house and grabbing us some fresh dressings?"

"On it," Bobby replied and gave the roof a couple of slaps.

"God; tell me you have the drops already." Sam practically begged while drawing his knees up and putting his feet on the seat.

"I got them," Dean answered as he moved Sam's hands away from his face. "Got them right here, man. Count to twenty and we'll be done; I promise."

Dean carefully removed the bandages from his brother's eyes, all the while, keeping watch at how Sam's hands hovered close to his face. With all the times that they'd been through this, he hadn't done that since that first night—when things were really bad. Dean shook his head, wondering what the hell might have sparked an episode this bad after things had been going so well.

Unscrewing the cap to the drops, Dean told his brother to look up. He waited and watched as Sam worked at getting his eyes to open. Again, he hadn't had trouble with that for couple of days. What the hell. The whole process was taking too long. His brother was suffering, and Dean decided to take the lead. Placing a hand on Sam's forehead, he said, "Just keep trying and I'll give you a hand."

Sam nodded and together they got his eyes to open. Dean administered three drops to Sam's right eye and then sat back and waited while Sam squeezed his eyes shut. There was a kind of intense sting for the first few seconds after the drops went in and Dean waited for that to pass before he moved onto the other eye and gave it three drops as well.

He was screwing the cap back on the bottle when Sam asked, "So, That Big Brother Radar you mentioned earlier?"

Dean looked down at his brother. "What about it?"

Sam smirked, "What's it saying now?"

"It's saying that you're still not completely healed and taking into consideration that we're just sitting here chilling under Baby's tarp while we wait for the drops to do their magic, you probably won't be 100% by tomorrow morning. But it's also saying that you're going to ditch the bandages tomorrow and be just fine really soon."

"Even though it hasn't been close to this bad since that first night?"

Dean smirked, "You were thinking about that too, huh?"

"Kinda hard not to."

"You're healing up and your body is repairing itself, Sam. Bodies do crazy shit when they're healing."

"I might buy into that."

Dean blinked. "Really?" he asked, surprised Sam gave up on it that fast.

Sam smiled, "Yeah. Before you put the drops in, I could make out some of the interior."

Dean grinned and felt about four tons of stress drop from his shoulders. "How much could you see?"

Sam frowned as he thought about that. "I don't know. I didn't have much time, but think I made out the steering wheel… and you—a little."

"Yeah, well," Dean looked around, "like all the other times, it's pretty dim in here. I wouldn't expect you to be seeing details right now."

"Right, and—" Sam gripped the steering wheel for leverage and started to sit up. He got stuck mid-way and Dean gave his back a gentle shove— "everything looked different than the last time I tried to look at something… less blurry and, I don't know… looked how I think something should look like in the dark."

"How are your eyes feeling now?"

Sam smiled, "Pretty good. Those drops are pretty amazing."

Dean nodded to himself while he struggled with what he wanted to say next. He looked at his brother, and then looked around at the near darkness of their surroundings. Sam's appointment was at 10:00 am tomorrow morning. Only fifteen hours away, and he was so damn tempted to ask Sam if he wanted to take a second to look around just to see how things appeared—so  _damn_  tempted. But, wasn't it just the other night when he had his brother in a chokehold to prevent him from doing that exact same thing? No. Dean shook his head in determination. He wouldn't allow his own anxiety and impatience to override the surgeon's specific orders. Not when so much was riding on making sure they did it right. And, doing it right, meant waiting until 10:00 am tomorrow morning to find out what Sam could see.

* * *

Keeping Bobby company out in his shop while he puttered about, Sam and Dean were sitting across from him at the workbench and every once in a while, he'd steal a glance. He'd put Dean to work by handing him a carburetor and asking him to put it back together and Dean had passed some of the work on to his brother. Dean had Sam cleaning parts and handing him tools, then he started guiding him through reassembling it.

It was busy work to keep Sam's mind off his appointment that was creeping up on them fairly quickly. The kid hardly ate anything for supper and it was pretty damn clear how nervous he was becoming about his results. And, it had been pretty damn obvious that Dean's stress level wasn't trailing far behind his brother's, which is why Bobby had put  _him_  to work in the first place.

There wasn't much talking going on in his shop that night and the atmosphere was tense enough that you could practically hear the strain of it. But they were staying busy, concentrating on what they were working on, and working on not thinking about tomorrow.

Bobby took a swig from the bottle of Pepto and winced as he swallowed it. Recapping it, he shook his head. He knew he should have passed on that garlic chicken, but damn if he wasn't addicted to the stuff. He'd eaten supper three hours ago and it looked like his gut was going to be working on digesting his meal for the rest of the night.

"You okay over there?" Dean asked from his side of the workbench.

Looking across, Bobby shot Dean a look, "Might be best if I passed on the Chinese for a while." He answered, then muffled a burp behind his fist.

Dean's grin matched his brother's and he said, "Hell getting old, huh?"

"Yeah, we'll see how those greasy burgers buried in onions sit with you in another twenty years."

The sound of a vehicle driving through his yard caught his attention, and Bobby looked outside, waiting to see who it was. Having a visitor after nine at night wasn't anything strange. Hunters showed up at all hours of the night and years ago Bobby had stopped being surprised at those 3 am wake-up calls by someone pounding on the door or calling his phone. Someone always needed something and hunting never held normal business hours.

However, aside from a unicorn trotting through his property, what he saw approaching was just about the last thing he'd expected. The vehicle pulled to a stop and Bobby shot a look across the workbench at Dean.

Looking up from the carburetor, Dean was slowly standing up, saying, "Oh, I don't  _believe_  this..."

Sam raised his head toward his brother. "What... who is it?"

A truck door slammed closed and then another and Bobby watched Dean's hand rest on Sam's shoulder before he answered. "Fucking Billy and Cooper."

The curiosity on Sam's face was replaced by what seemed a mix of uncertainty and anger. Bobby noticed how Dean squeezed his brother's shoulder as the boys walked around Cooper's truck and neared the shop.

Bobby can't be sure he didn't glare at the them with a dark, smoldering stare the whole way from Coopers truck until they stopped just inside the entrance way. What he could be sure of, is he never took his eyes off the pair. Not while they walked up, not while they shot each other a wary look, and not while they stuffed their hands in their pockets while standing there in silence. No one moved and no one spoke, and if Bobby thought the atmosphere was tense before, it was downright volatile now.

After a long, drawn-out minute passed and still no one spoke a word, Bobby figured he'd be the one to start the show. Adjusting the cap on his head, Bobby asked, "Help you boys with something?"

"Uh," Billy started and then looked over at Cooper. His friend gave him a slight nod, and Billy looked back at the three of them. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "Yeah, I uh—" he cleared his throat again— "I just wanted to—well, I wanted to come by and see if Sam was okay."

Billy's eyes slid from Bobby to Sam and lingered there for a second. He looked at Dean and Bobby would swear the kid flinched back the slightest bit. Dean never blinked, never spoke, and aside from gripping his brother's shoulder a little tighter, he never moved. Billy looked back to Bobby and Bobby just sat there looking back. Another bit of time passed and still, no one else spoke.

Looking down at the ground, Billy reached back and started rubbing the back of his neck. He cleared his throat for a third time, saying, "Also, I know I screwed up, and I know what happened was because of me, and I just—I just wanted to come by and apologize."

"You want to apologize." Dean smiled. He tossed down the part he was working on and headed around the workbench. "You want to  _apologize_?" Dean asked, and Billy took a step back as Dean got closer. Then, before Bobby could blink, Dean was on the kid, grabbing him by the coat and slamming him against the door of Cooper's truck.

"My brother can't fucking  _see_  right now; don't know if he will again, and you wanted to  _APOLOGIZE?"_  Dean raged, slamming Billy against the truck again.

Cooper took a step forward, "Now, hold on, Dean. It was a mistake and—"

"Mistake, my  _ass,"_  Bobby hissed as he walked up between Cooper and Dean. "Coop, you've been friends with Billy since kindergarten. You were practically raised by his folks. You know this kid's been around gasoline, kerosene and diesel fuel all his life." Bobby turned and leaned toward Billy, "your daddy's had you fixing fuel systems since you could hold a wrench. Boy, you've worked on everything from a Nova to a Deere. You know which container color matches which fuel. Hell, been around it so much, I know you can tell the difference by the color of the fuel itself, and even by the  _smell_." Bobby glared at Billy, "No way this gets chalked up to a simple  _mistake."_

Billy gawked at Bobby, "Wh-what're you sayin?" He looked at Dean and then back to Bobby, "You saying I purposely—"

"Were ya high, Billy?" Dean asked, inches from Billy's face, his voice quiet, yet lethal. "Hmm?" He cocked his head, "Maybe a little puff-puff-pass before coming here?"

Billy started to sputter, looked over at Cooper for help, then Dean twisted his fists in Billy's coat and his eyes skipped back to him. Bobby walked up to the two and looked at Billy, "You'd better answer his question, son, if you hope to leave here in one piece."

Billy's eyes darted to Bobby and he started stammering, "Bob-Bobby, please—you know I— I mean, I never meant—"

Dean took Billy and slammed him against the truck harder, shouting in his face, "Were you fucking high!"

The impact was enough to get a pained cry out of Billy, and Bobby was surprised that the window behind him hadn't cracked. You could  _feel_  the repressed frustration and pure  _fury_ billowing off of Dean, and one look back at Sam told Bobby that the he felt it too. He'd gotten up and was feeling his way toward them. Bobby left Billy to Dean's questionable mercy and went over to him.

"Sam," he said, touching his arm, "I know what you're thinking, and you don't want to get in the middle of this right now." There was another crash against the truck. Billy cried out again, followed by a growl from Dean warning Cooper to keep out of it, and Bobby knew what look Sam was giving him from behind the bandages.

"He's going to  _kill_  him, Bobby."

The hunter placed a hand against Sam's chest when he took another step forward, saying, "No, he's not. He's just making that fool fess up to what he done." Sam gave him the same look but tacked on a sigh, and then he made Bobby push against his chest again. "Look, is he mad? Hell yes, he's mad—we're all mad. And, Billy's getting what's been comin to him. You know Dean's not going to  _kill_  the boy. Give him a beatdown; probably, but not kill—"

"Yes!" Billy practically screamed. "Alright?  _Yes!_  I smoked a little!"

Bobby spun around at the sound of Dean's roar and watched as he turned and slammed Billy against the rolling tool chest, then flung him into the shelves, and then dragged him outside, hurtling him against the wall of the shop. Then he started wailing on the kid. Cooper was yelling something and Dean was still shouting and raging as he unleashed on his target, and Bobby looked back at Sam with wide eyes, "Okay, yeah, maybe we'd better step in."

* * *

Dean knew he was just a step away from losing all control. Standing over Billy and holding him off the ground by his shirt, Dean's fist rained down on his face, punch after punch after punch. It was taking every shred of his self-control not to go all the way and just kill the bastard. He was vaguely aware of shouting from behind him, and someone was tugging on his arm, trying to pull him off of Billy, but he wasn't planning on letting up anytime soon. He hit him again, shouting, "Do you have any idea what my brother has been through this week—" Dean slugged the man— "the  _agony_  he's endured, you sonovabitch!"

Billy was curled in on himself and using the cast on his broken arm as some sort of make-shift shield. He was shouting something, pleading and saying  _something,_ but Dean wasn't in a talking mood. He was content to keep on wailing on the sad sack-of-shit for brains until he broke his own hand doing it—and even then, he wasn't sure he'd stop. Probably just switch hands.

That was his plan. That's what he was committed to doing, but then hands touched his back and then grabbed his biceps, pulling him off Billy. He reacted by ducking out of their grasp. He spun around and, not even thinking that the only person that would be trying to grab him and stop him would be Bobby, he began to throw them to the ground when Bobby shouted from behind, "Dean! Stop!"

Bobby popped up out of nowhere and Dean looked down to see that he had his brother in his clutches. He'd jerked Sam off his feet and was close to throwing him to the ground. He was so lost in his madness that he never even realized it. Sam had a grip on his arms and was getting his feet back under himself when Bobby came up and steadied him.

"Are you nuts?" Dean asked his brother. He released the grasp on his shirt and took him by the shoulders, "I could have really hurt you. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I had to." Wincing, Sam grabbed Dean's arm and straightened his back, "Pretty sure I'm the only one you'd stop for."

Dean stared hard at his brother. He asked, "and why the hell are you trying to stop me?"

"Because if I didn't, you would end up going too far. It's not worth it, Dean."

"He could've killed you!"

Sam spoke calmly, "But, he didn't."

"He may have seriously messed with your vision—"

"Yeah, and if that happens, pounding him into mulch won't change that one damn bit. I don't want you beating this guy to within an inch of his life, because of what he did, because you think you owe it to me to make him pay. I don't want that, Dean. Please, for me, just let him go."

Dean battled against himself trying to decide what he was going to do next. Everything Sam said was true; damn it. Every part of Dean wanted to beat this guy until he was a stain on the ground. But this was Sam's thing. Sam was the one that might be paying the price for the dickwad's fuckup. Looking his brother over, and taking in his plea argument, Dean sighed and found it un-fucking-believable that, even hidden behind bandages, his brother could still pull out the puppy dog eyes.

Dean took a harder look at the hunter lying on the ground. He glared at the bloody, messy, panting heap, and then crouched down next to him, saying, "You'd better make knowing our location your number one priority. For the rest of your life, you make sure you are nowhere near us. Because I'll tell you, Fate likes balance, and this ain't over—her scales aren't even. And if you don't stay on your toes, she's going to let us run into you again. It might be years into the future, but I promise you, it'll happen if you're not careful. I will never forget your face, I will never forgive what you've done. Sam saved you this time, but if there is a next time, there will be no stopping me. You just used up your one Get out of Jail Free card. Capisce?"

Billy stared at him, unblinking and a shade paler. He nodded quickly and with earnest. Dean got back up and stood beside his brother. Cooper started to pull Billy up off the ground and Bobby walked up to them, saying, "Billy, you and me, kid, we're through." He looked over at Cooper. "Next time you come by, you'd damned-well better make sure he's not with you or there will be hell to pay. You catch my drift, son?"

Cooper gave Bobby a nod and then they were climbing into Cooper's truck and driving down the driveway.

* * *

Later that night, sometime around midnight, Dean managed to lose his brother. It was ridiculous and unbelievable, but there it was: he'd lost Sam. He'd gone upstairs for five minutes, and when he'd come back down, Sam was gone.

Dean walked from the kitchen to the living room, turned in a circle, then headed back upstairs. He's pretty sure there would be no way for his brother to pass by him while he was up there, but he'd checked everywhere else. He'd even ran down to the basement and looked in the panic room. Sam was not in the house.

He wasn't with Bobby, because Bobby was at the desk in the living room, socked feet propped up on the corner, snoring.

Sam must have gone outside. Taking long strides, he pushed open the screen door and shouted for his brother. He didn't get an answer. Jogging down the steps and out into the yard, he called for him again. That time he got a response. Walking down the path, he headed toward Sam's voice.

He was getting ready to call for him again when Sam called out, "Over here."

Turning to his right, Dean rounded the workshop and found Sam on Baby's hood, relaxing against her windshield. In his hand was a beer, his first one since the accident—that Dean knew of—and he was just sitting there, chilling like it was any other October evening.

Walking up on the car, Dean asked, "Got curious and decided to mix alcohol and medicine?"

Sam smiled. "I'm in the clear. Haven't had anything but the drops in the last 24 hours."

Hopping up on the hood of his car, Dean laid back next to his brother. He asked, "Whatcha doin out here, Sammy?"

Sam was quiet, then said, "Just looking at the stars."

Dean looked over at Sam like he was nuts. He put the back of his hand to his brother's forehead and Sam smirked, pushing his hand away, "I'm not delirious, Dean."

"Well, you go and say whack-o crap like that, and I'm checking for fever."

"But, I'm serious."

Now, Dean looked at Sam like he was insane.  _"What?"_

"Look," Sam stopped and seemed to be trying to put his thoughts into words. He wasn't quiet for long before he sighed, saying, "I'll be honest; okay? Tomorrow's got me a little freaked out. You know? So, I'm just..., trying not to get my hopes up too high. Prepare for the worst and hope for the best, and all that." Dean was quiet, and Sam continued, "Even though we don't want to think about it, and we don't talk about it..., Dean, there's a chance that this is how I'll be looking at the stars from now on—"

"Sam...,"

"No, Dean. Come on. The doc said 70/30. I know math's never been your best subject—"

"Hey!"

"But you've figured out the odds. Thirty out of every one hundred people don't make a full recovery from this level of trauma." Sam said, gesturing toward his face. " _Thirty_ out of every one hundred. Dude, that's pretty shaky odds."

"Well, okay," Dean replied, gazing at the stars above, "but, if you flip that around, then you have seventy people out of every hundred make a full recovery. Much better odds."

Sam released a long exhale, "I guess so. I just don't want to buy into that, I guess. Because if I do, then it's like I'm jinxing myself. I've got to go in there expecting the worse. If I go in there any other way, and get bad results..."

"Yeah, I get that." Dean looked over at his brother. "You know, if that happens, you know that I'm gonna be right there. Right?"

Sam turned toward him. He smiled. "Yeah, I know."

"Of course," Dean looked back up at the night sky, "You know that if the worst happens, you know I'm dragging you out to the bars. You'll be a total chick magnet."

"You're pitiful."

Sam's annoyed tone got negated by the smile on his face and Dean continued, "No I'm not. I'm a genius. Chicks love to swoon all over disabled dudes."

"So, how will you benefit if they're 'swooning' over me?"

"Because, Sammy," Dean grinned, "They also swoon over awesome big brothers that look out for their little brothers."

"Okay. I'll admit it. I was wrong. You're not pitiful."

"I told ya."

"You're pathetic."

"Whatever."

A brief stretch of time passed between them in silence, then Sam asked, "How's your hand?"

Dean flexed it, wincing as he forced it into a fist. He said, "Better than Billy's face."

Sam chuckled. "That much I know."

Dean turned and looked at his brother, "Thanks, by the way."

"You're welcome."

"I was out of my mind, Sammy. I was so crazy with anger. _._. I think I might have actually killed the guy if you hadn't stopped me."

Sam turned to face him. "I know."

Dean sighed and looked back at the sky. He wasn't sure how long they stayed like they were, lying side by side, both of them lost in their own thoughts, but it was long enough for the starry landscape to change. Pulling out his phone, Dean looked at the time. "Hey, he said and gave his brother a nudge, "It's close to 2 am. You should go get some rest."

Sam chuckled, "Uh, that's a nice thought, but I'm not getting any sleep tonight."

"Well, maybe a bedtime story will help."

Turning toward him, Sam's brow furrowed. " _You_ want to tell me a bedtime story."

"Yup. Well, read you one." Dean opened up his app and asked, "Which sub do you want: The Truth is Here or Ghost Posts?"

Sam grinned. "Ghost Posts."

"Ghost Posts it is, then," Dean said as he brought up the page on his Reddit app. It was just like they did when Sam first told him about Reddit while Dean was laid up. They read the stories and picked them apart and even made a note about one or two to check out at some point.

* * *

"Dean, for the third time. Please. Sit down." Sam implored of his brother. The footsteps that had been pacing the exam room was wearing his thinned nerves even finer to the point where Sam felt them starting to fray. The chair next to him creaked when Dean plopped back into it. It didn't matter much that he wasn't pacing anymore, because as soon as he sat down, his left knee started bobbing up and down with nervous energy. Sam wished he could scoot over his chair that was butted up next to his brother's, but that wasn't possible. When they'd walked in, Dean had given him a layout of the room and it happened to be that both waiting chairs were wedged into an alcove between two sets of cabinets.

Sam counted to forty-seven before he couldn't take it any longer and his hand lashed out, gripping Dean's knee. His brother's leg halted and Sam held his knee saying, "You're making me more nervous than I already am."

"Okay, I'm sorry!" Dean griped and then shot back up to his feet, and Sam considered taking his chair out into the hallway to wait. "I can't help it," said Dean. "We should have already been out of here by now and we haven't even  _seen_  the doctor yet."

"He was called away for an emergency—" Sam leaned his head back against the wall— "probably like he was when you brought me to the ER last week. I'm sure there were people with appointments waiting to see him while he was dealing with me."

"I know, I know, I know," mumbled Dean and then his weight dropped back into his seat. The fabric on his brother jacket rustled and Sam could swear that he felt the heavy weight of his gaze fall upon him. A second later, Dean asked, "How you doing, Sam?"

"My stomach is in knots and my heart is pounding inside my throat." He grinned, "But, not much worse off than you, I'd guess."

There was a knock on the exam room door and Sam sat up in his chair. Dean, meanwhile, grumbled something and shot back up to his feet. The door opened, and the doctor's deep voice walked in. "Hello, boys. Sorry about the wait," He said, stopping to greet Dean, who was probably looming right next to the door. Footsteps approached him, and the doctor asked, "Sam, how you doing?"

A tap on his hand told Sam he wanted to shake his hand in greetings. "Anxious," Sam grinned and offered his right hand. Groendyke captured it in his own and they exchanged a firm handshake. "And, nervous."

"Completely understandable. In fact, I'd be a little wary if you weren't. Well," Sam heard the unmistakable squelch of someone pulling on exam gloves. "How about we just dive right in and get rid of the unknown."

"Please."

The surgeon's hand landed on his shoulder, "Sam, I'm going to ask you to move over to the exam table—about five paces straight in front of you."

Sam got up and the doctor's hand dropped from his shoulder to under his forearm. Walking with him, he waited until Sam had a hand on the table before letting go. Sliding up on the cushioned table, he listened to the surgeon and his nurse discussing things around what sounded like tools and other supplies being moved about. There was some clanking as things were set down on what he assumed was a metal tray to his right, and Sam listened to the room to see if he could tell where his brother was standing.

Paying attention to the way various sounds rebounded off the walls and tile floors, Sam didn't think the room was very big, but he was having trouble picking out any sounds that might belong to his brother. He knew he was in there. He had no doubts about that. But when his anxiety rose higher and his heartbeat tried to strangle him, Sam asked, "Dean?"

His brother's response was immediate and nearer than he'd expected. His voice was low and soft, and his hand landed on his left shoulder as he said, "Right here, man."

Sam turned his face toward his voice and Dean's hand moved to grip the back of his neck. He gave it a squeeze. The support and reassurance were calming and the feeling like he was about to puke started to ease.

"Okay, I think we're ready. Sam," The doctor's voice walked over from the counters and stopped right in front of him. "We're going to start off in a nice, dim room. Okay? The blinds are closed most of the way and—Ellen, if you could hit the lights please." Sam heard the flick of the light switch and then Groendyke's hand landed on his right shoulder. "I'm going to go ahead and cut off the bandages now. You'll feel the back of the scissors along the side of your face, but don't worry, they're blunt tips."

Sam swallowed and nodded. His mouth was so dry he didn't think he could have given the surgeon a response if he wanted to.

A cool, smooth metal touched the side of his face and the doctor started making small snips. There was a gentle tug on the bandages right before he said, "Just going to pull the gauze away from your face a little bit; want to make sure I don't cut your hair."

"Eh, go ahead and cut it," Dean piped up from his left side. "The kid has needed a haircut since he was sixteen."

A smile broke out on Sam's face and the doctor and nurse chuckled, the tension in the room lifting by about fifty percent. Dean perched a hip on the table next to him and sat close enough that his leg touched Sam's hand, telling him without words that he was there, and it was going to be okay.

Making the final snip, the surgeon removed the bandages and then carefully peeled off one of the eye pads. Dean stood up again and his hand landed on Sam's arm. Sam was pretty sure his fingers were making permanent indentations into the table, he was gripping it so hard. The second eye pad came off and Groendyke said, "Okay. Sam. Whenever you're ready."

Swallowing hard, Sam took a breath and slowly opened his eyes. His first glance didn't reveal very much, thanks to the thick ointment Dean gave him late last night. He had to blink past it a few times. Things became less warped and wavy and started to take shape. Blinking a couple of more times, Sam exhaled in a whoosh of relief. Positioned right in front of him was the surgeon's face. Sam grinned big and wide, "Hi."

The surgeon smiled back, "How's everything looking?"

"Well," Sam blinked, and then did it again. "Seems to be okay, but I think the ointment is making everything blurry."

"We can help with that. Ellen, hand me the saline, please."

Sam looked over to his brother and squinted up at him. Dean seemed to be frozen in place. He probably wasn't sure how much Sam was seeing just then. So, Sam smiled at him and about twenty years of stress melted from his brother's face. Smiling back, Dean squeezed his arm and gave it a gentle shake.

The surgeon turned back around, saying, "Sam, go ahead and swing your feet around and lie down on the table and we'll get that ointment out of there."

Lying back on the table, the nurse positioned a couple of towels on either side of his face, "To catch the saline," she said. "Don't want you getting all wet."

Sam gave her a little smile and then the surgeon was standing over him. He was holding a bottle and said, "I'm going to flush your eyes out a little. Don't worry. It won't hurt."

"Okay," responded Sam and he couldn't help thinking back to a similar procedure a few days ago, down in the ER. It was a pretty terrible thing to go through and a memory of the pain must have made him tense, because then Dean patted his knee. Sam took a deep breath and released it and gave a nod.

His eye lid was held open as a gentle stream of saline solution flowed from the bottle. He flinched a little at first, just out of reflex and anticipation, but then he relaxed. The surgeon was right. It wasn't the most enjoyable sensation, but there was no pain.

Flushing out the other eye, Groendyke used a gentle touch to wipe his eyes and the sides of his face with one of the towels. Sam opened his eyes and the first thing he focused on were all the tiny little holes in the panels of the drop ceiling above him.

"Better?" asked the doctor as he extended a hand and helped Sam to sit back up.

Sam blinked and allowed his eyes to roam around the room. Grinning he looked at Dean, saying, "Much better."

"Good! Go ahead and shield your eyes and we'll turn the lights back on now."

Sam did as instructed, and when the room lit up with fluorescent lighting, he couldn't help squinting at the brightness.

"Give your eyes time to adjust. It might take a minute."

Sam dropped his hand when he thought he could handle the lights, even then, he still had to squint some. The surgeon bent down close, asking, "Okay so far?"

Sam nodded, "I think so..." he smiled, "seems extra bright."

Bringing up an instrument, the doctor nodded, "Yeah, you'll be a little sensitive over the next couple of days, but it won't last. Okay, I'm going to take a look and see how that corneal tear healed."

"I've got a question," Dean stated, and the surgeon nodded, saying, "Go right ahead."

"Well, things had been going really good. But then yesterday, Sam had a pretty bad episode with pain in his eyes. Should that still be happening?"

Groendyke nodded as he listened, "Nothing out of the ordinary, and don't be surprised if it happens again. Just put in those drops and have him rest his eyes for a bit. Sometimes when an organ heals itself, something goes haywire and has a little freak-out, but everything should smooth back out very soon. If it doesn't—Sam, if you're still having problems a couple of weeks from now, or if you notice that things are worsening, call the office and we'll get you right in."

The doctor raised his tool and leaned in close to Sam. The tiny beam of light from the instrument hit his eye, but it wasn't any more uncomfortable than the lights in the room. He tried not to blink as the doctor looked through the scope and dialed through a couple of settings.

Sanding back up Grendyke said, "Sam, I'm very pleased to say that you appear to have made a complete recovery."

He'd already begun to figure that out, but hearing the official word from the eye surgeon, chased away any lingering doubts he might have had. Giving him a grand smile, Groendyke offered his hand and Sam took it, reciprocating the hearty handshake.

A little later, while they were exiting the medical building, Sam shielded his eyes as he walked out into the sunshine. The sky was blue, the grass was green, and the trees were painted all the colors of Autumn. He just stood there for a minute and took it all in. Then he looked over at his brother, who for once wasn't telling him to hurry up. Sam smiled for about the hundredth time, and said, "Thanks, Dean. For everything."

Dean smiled back for a second and then he turned to head to the car, saying, "You know what this means though..."

Falling into step beside his brother, Sam looked over, "What?"

"Now we're going to have to come up with a completely different plan for picking up the ladies."

_Fin._


End file.
